


The Half-Blood

by TheLiteraryEscapist



Series: The Argent Chronicles [2]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 47,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29062599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLiteraryEscapist/pseuds/TheLiteraryEscapist
Summary: Return to The Huntress series with the second installment in Adrianna Argent's adventures. Following the events of last spring, Adrianna and the rest of the pack must come to terms with the death of their friend, as well as the aftermath of the final battle, both natural and supernatural. Residents of Beacon Hills soon find out that Alpha Kanimas aren't the only supernatural creatures they need to worry about. Trouble brews in the form of the Alpha pack, which lures Adrianna back to Beacon Hills and straight into a new school year filled with fear, bloodshed, and...oh, yeah...human sacrifices. What's a demigod to do?
Relationships: Aiden/Lydia Martin, Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Isaac Lahey/Original Female Character(s), Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski
Series: The Argent Chronicles [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2059464
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8





	1. Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, I'm back! I decided to post this first chapter of the second installment in the Argent Chronicles. I'd love feedback for this chapter, so send me a kudoos or write a comment. 
> 
> I have tons of ideas for this season. 3a and 3b have always been my favourite, and it's a pleasure to play with MTV's and Jeff Davis' characters. I'll be altering the plot lines to fit my own canon from now on, so expect mega-long chapters and extremely awesome original story arcs. 
> 
> And yes, you've read the tags right; I'm going to be meshing the supernatural fandom into this. For now, it'll just be myths and lore, but eventually I want Sam and Dean to have a cameo, if not a considerable role in this series. Please let me know what you think. After I saw the Motel California episode, I felt like there was too much opportunity for a crossover between the teen wolf and supernatural fandoms. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and drop your thoughts below. 
> 
> Vanessa <3

She awoke as she had for the last three months, with his name on her tongue, a breath away from screaming. There was a chill in the air that wrapped around her like a vice-grip, reminding her of the nightmare she'd just awoken from.

For Adrianna, the dream was always the same. When she woke up, the heavy weight in her chest and the stinging ache across her back were always there to remind her that it hadn't been a dream at all.

Leaning forward in her small cot, Adrianna placed her forehead against her knees and tried to regulate her erratic breathing. It was early morning. She could tell without even looking outside. Too many times, Adrianna had snapped herself awake out of the same horrific memory. She had memorized the gray light of pre-dawn and the echoing sounds of her cabin-mate's snoring.

Sweat had drenched her long hair so it hung in stringy clumps around her bowed head. Her hands were slick with sweat but she didn't bother wiping them dry. She wrapped her clammy fingers around her ankles, squeezing her eyes shut tightly as her heart seemed to compress.

“ _Jackson._ ” She gave in to the urge, allowing his name to break past her lips in a fractured whisper. An aching groan wanted to follow as the picture of his dead, broken form flashed before her mind's eye, but she didn't let it.

Salt water dripped into her mouth as she found herself grimacing to withhold the pained cry that demanded to be heard. Adrianna wasn't sure if it was sweat, or tears. At this point, she couldn't have cared less.

Once her bones felt like molten lead and her thoughts had cleared, Adrianna forced herself out of the twisted position she'd adopted for the better half of an hour and carefully pressed her feet to the cold, cement floors.

Adrianna shivered but refused to go back to her warm bed. She pushed her shoulders back and felt her jaw twitch as her expression tightened. Outside the tiny window inset near the front of the Hermes cabin, Adrianna stared into the brightening morning. The sun rose in a large, orange ball of fire, reflecting rays of light into the pitch dark cabin.

Behind her, Adrianna heard one of the older campers stir, but he did not awaken. Normally, no one except for Dionysus was conscious at this time of day, but in the weeks since Thalia Grace's tree had been poisoned and the camp's borders were compromised, all that had changed.

The familiar drum of marching soldiers reached Adrianna's ears as the imprint of the sun became burned into her eyes. She blinked but didn't look away. The watch shift was about to be changed. Adrianna didn't have any more time to waste.

Turning away from the window before the brave, very tired, and most likely injured guards could pass by, Adrianna knelt down beside her cot, careful not to step on any hands or feet, and retrieved the large, antique trunk hidden beneath the bed.

Over the years, the Hermes cabin had become extremely over-crowded. When she'd first arrived, five years ago, there had been enough beds for everyone. Adrianna had never thought the day would come when she'd be thankful for the many years she'd been staying there, but even the pain of surviving another year couldn't compare to sleeping on the floor, as many of the unclaimed campers were forced to do.

She sat on the flat mattress and the springs creaked. Unlatching the trunk, Adrianna's eyes flittered over the contents of the chest. Her heart lurched as the edge of a picture-frame caught her attention. Adrianna didn't need to reach into the chest and take out the frame to know who was in the picture, but she did so anyway.

Six years was a short amount of time for a person to change, but already, Adrianna felt like the girl smiling back at her in the picture was a total stranger. In her hands, she held a dead rabbit. The picture had been taken on the day she'd completed her archery training; it had been a particularly important monument for her because of how hard it had been. Adrianna might have had the same frizzy hair, green eyes, and even the nearly imperceptible sprinkling of freckles underneath her eyes and around her nose, but the girl in the photograph and her weren't the same. Not anymore.

Adrianna Argent at eleven years old was not the same person that she was now, at seventeen. Not even close. Now, she was a murderer.

Her lips curled furiously and she hurriedly tossed the picture frame back into the chest haphazardly. Adrianna stripped her night clothes and pulled on a pair of battle-torn jeans scrounged from the bottom of the trunk, along with a random t-shirt Adrianna assumed belonged to someone else, thanks to the _“Satyr's are Awesome!”_ logo stamped to the front in bright red, contrasting sharply with the neon green fabric of the shirt.

Rolling her eyes at the immature shirt and swallowing thickly, pretending as though she'd never even seen the picture, Adrianna snugly tied her combat boots to her feet before reaching under her pillow and extracting both of her hunting knives. She looped a specially made belt around her waist, clipping it snugly in place before slotting both of her knives on either side of her hips.

She stood feeling a hundred times heavier than she had when she'd woken up and nearly three feet taller. Slamming the chest shut and latching it closed, Adrianna briskly walked out of the cabin without a second glance.

Her boots crunched the gravel under-foot loudly. It was the only sound breaking the quiet morning, aside from the hushed conversation of the group of campers gathered on the Big House's front porch.

Veering to the side, Adrianna slipped an elastic off of her wrist and tied back her greasy locks. She ascended the steps of the big house in two large, bouncing steps, shoving her way past the grumbling, nearly incoherent campers to get to her destination. Within a few moments, the sons of Apollo began to recognize her, parting before her like a receding tide.

“Move,” Adrianna growled as a boy wearing charred armor with a nasty set of slashes adorning his breast-plate stood frozen in her path, his back to her. “Get out of the way.” He turned to face her, nearly four inches taller than she was, but as soon as his eyes found hers, he stepped aside, whatever curse he'd been planning to throw her way dying on his lips.

Adrianna frowned, her chin tilting downwards as she plowed onwards, pushing aside the strange sensation pulling at her heart as the archer's wavy, honey-colored hair stirred up memories of a different boy she'd been trying her very best to forget.

“Miss Argent,” Chiron greeted her with an air of expectance. She knew that he'd been waiting for her to arrive. “What is it that brings you here at such an early hour?” The elderly centaur wondered, a gleam of wisdom twinkling in his eyes that suggested he already knew why she'd come. This wasn't the first time she'd risen before the sun and volunteered to take a shift guarding the camp's borders. It was, however, the first time she'd bothered to ask permission.

Adrianna's hands found her hips, itching to grasp hold of the handles of her knives but knowing that the gesture would seem far more aggressive than it actually was. “Don't play stupid with me, old man.” She disrespectfully rebuked, a twinge of embarrassment coloring her fair cheeks. “You and I both know why I'm here.”

It wasn't the gawking stares or the indignant, disbelieving gasps that rattled her. Adrianna was used to such reactions. Since the day she'd first arrived, it had been clear that she wasn't meant to fit in. What really bothered her, digging beneath her skin like a sword in her gut, was the request she'd come here to make.

“Yes, we do.” Chiron earnestly agreed. Other than the slight wrinkle between his brows, the salt and pepper haired professor didn't seem fazed by her rudeness. Adrianna felt awkward staring down at the wheelchair-bound centaur. She took to inspecting the checkered blanket spread across the man's false legs.

“So,” Adrianna roughly prompted, clearing her throat as she looked up into Chiron's warm, brown gaze. “Um—I guess, uh, if you already know what I'm going to ask, then...” Pressing her lips together, Adrianna took a deep breath before finishing, ignoring the slightly pleased quirk in Chiron's lips as she struggled. “I'll be taking a camper with me to guard the north border. Volunteers would be helpful but if no one is brave enough—” She let her sentence hang as she appraised each of the young, worn soldiers gathered around her. Their eyes flitted away from hers instantly and a tiny bit of steel welded itself to Adrianna's broken spirit as part of her pride returned. “Then I will choose one for myself.” She stated, leaving no room for negotiation.

“It would seem that you have assumed I agree with your request.” The centaur spoke up. A stab of panic increased Adrianna's heart-rate. She was glad not to be surrounded by any werewolves. “But I have not agreed _yet_.” He reminded her.

Her shoulders sagged without her consent as she shut her eyes, sighing tiredly. “What do you want from me?” Adrianna gruffly demanded the century-old mentor. “What can I do that would make you stop picking on me?” She wondered incredulously. Her voice rose shrilly and Adrianna couldn't contain a slight wince as the campers encircling her took a large step back in fear.

“Picking on you?” Chiron pronounced the words as though they were foreign. He frowned, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Adrianna, it was never my intention to make you feel uncomfortable. This camp is your home. I simply wanted you to understand that sharing a deeper part of yourself with the children living here is not a crime. You can trust us.” He assured her.

Heat stung Adrianna's eyes. For weeks, Chiron had been putting her on the spot, challenging her in front of the other campers and drawing attention to her as often as possible. It had been the result of many more “accidental injuries” than the camp had fared since her first, volatile years staying there.

“So that's what this has all been about?” She whispered, her irritation simmering down into a hot coal of rage. “You've been torturing me for my own good. Is that it?” Adrianna's head tilted as the centaur avoided her jade stare.

“Miss Argent,” Chiron sighed heavily, pressing a hand to his forehead. “I'm afraid the level of miscomprehension you've placed upon my actions is abysmally large and unfair.” He finally looked up, a surprising amount of honesty shining in his eyes. “I only wanted you to accept us. Nothing more, nothing less. I can promise you that.”

Adrianna's expression faltered. She was angry, so angry that it tunneled deep inside her bones and burned her veins like fire. But beneath that was a cold pit of despair so infinitely painful that even acknowledging its existence felt like walking through acid-rain.

“You should have waited.” She brokenly informed the centaur, her forehead scrunching as she kept a tight hold over her riotous emotions. “You have no idea who I am outside of the four months I spend in camp. You have no idea, the things I've done...”

Adrianna stopped as her next words caught in her throat. The campers around her were so silent, she hardly remembered they were there. When she looked around her, expecting to find hate and fear in their gazes, she was surprised to see how soft their faces were. Understanding, guilt, and sadness shone in their eyes. It made Adrianna sick to her stomach.

“Oh,” She nodded her head, a derisive laugh slipping past her lips. “Oh, I get it.” Adrianna let herself smile cruelly, burying the hurt beneath the layers of security her mother had shown her how to use to shroud her feelings. “This is all some kind of joke to you guys.” A cackle burst out of her mouth as the wetness in her eyes faded away, along with the heat that had scorched her throat.

“No,” Chiron chastised firmly, his hands taking hold of the armrests of his wheelchair as though he wanted to rise up to his full height right there and then. “Do not ignore the pain within you. It demands to be felt. You must release it before it consumes you.” He begged her. “I have seen it before in other heroes. It never ends well.”

Kate's smile ghosted over Adrianna's features as she backed away from the words of wisdom echoing in her skull. “No thanks,” She mocked him, descending the big house's steps, still facing Chiron. “Happy endings were never really my thing.”

She turned around, the bravado melting from her expression in a split second as she walked towards Thalia's dying pine tree as quickly as she could without looking as though she was running away, even though that was exactly what she was doing.

Adrianna was running away from Chiron and her family. She was running away from Scott and his pack; running away from the blame of killing Jackson Whittemore. But, perhaps worst of all, Adrianna was running away from herself.

“Child, wait!” Chiron called out to her, his voice holding notes of desperation. “At the very least, accept the assistance that you came here for.” He told her.

Adrianna grinned savagely, shaking her head minutely. “You know what,” She yelled back, tossing her hair over her shoulder to stare at the receding big house. “I'll do it by myself.”

No one stopped her as she walked further and further, her feet kicking up swirling clouds of dust. “ _Just like always._ ” Adrianna couldn't help but adding, her voice barely loud enough to be heard above each of her pounding steps.

She wasn't ready to open up to other people and trust them with everything that made her the messed up person she was. Not when she couldn't even look herself in the mirror.

**#-#-#-#-#**

The moon was shining outside the warehouse, its pale, waxing light sifting through the dust and grime coating the barely-there windows and illuminating Derek's features. He looked up as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed in his ears.

“Did you find anything?” He immediately asked as Isaac Lahey walked into the warehouse, followed closely by Derek’s uncle, Peter. Clapping his hands together to rid them of dirt, Derek lifted himself off his knees to stand as the duo approached him.

“No,” Isaac ground out frustratedly, kicking at the concrete floor as his features twisted in defeat. “We searched the whole preserve, _twice_ , and the only leads we could find are the ones that lead us to the forest in the first place.”

“Their tracks have been covered well. It doesn't look like we're going to be able to find them by scent, or any other means of tracking.” Peter added, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against a nearby, rusted pylon, content to watch the young beta suffer for his friend's increasingly gloomy fates, without lifting a finger to console him.

“Well, there's got to be something.” Derek shook his head, licking his lips pensively as his brain scrambled to come up with an alternative method of finding his two lost betas. “If we can't find them by scent, maybe we can tear a page out of a regular human's book and start looking for traffic cams and CCTV footage that shows irregular activity.” He proposed.

Peter snorted loudly, tilting his head back as he laughed. “You don't honestly believe that Deucalion would be stupid enough to get caught on tape kidnapping, maiming, or murdering the two missing teens that the whole town's been searching for, for over three months, do you?” He incredulously demanded, pushing off the metal beam to join Isaac and Derek as they stood uselessly in a loose circle.

“What other choice do I have?” He all-but shouted, his voice ricocheting off the walls and reaching his ears sounding intense and angry. “Erica and Boyd's chances of survival get slimmer with each passing day. I can't afford to do nothing and hope that by some miracle of chance, Deucalion decides to let them go.”

“That's just my point!” Peter exclaimed, waving his hands in the air exasperatedly. “We've taken way too long searching for them. Even if we do get a lead, by now, its ninety-nine-point nine percent likely that both of your betas are already dead.” He callously informed Derek.

The skin between his brows pinched together as he frowned, huffing out a breath of angry air. “I know,” He tiredly agreed, nearly suffocating in the waves of disbelief and rage that wafted off Isaac. “But I can't give up on them. I had a responsibility to keep them safe. If I abandon them now, what does that make me?” Derek wondered.

“What the hell is going on?” Isaac questioned rawly, his voice cracking with emotion.

Peter ignored the boy even as Derek glanced up in his direction, finding it hard to stare evenly into his beta's clear, blue eyes. “Don't start pretending to be the hero, now.” His uncle lectured testily, reaching the end of his extremely limited patience for the fifth time that day. “Erica and Boyd knew what they were getting into when they left your pack. You warned them. As far as I'm concerned, whatever happens to them now is on them. Your hands are clean.” Peter assured.

“Great,” Derek growled, dropping himself onto a nearby crate as his legs no longer had the strength to keep him standing. “Having you approve of my decisions really makes me feel that much better.” He sarcastically quipped.

Peter frowned, stepped back as he raised his arms in offense. “Me?” He wondered, confused. “Well, I'm sorry if I'm not as righteous and good-natured as Scott McCall, but if you wanted his help, maybe you should have thought twice about crossing his moral line of justice.” Peter snarled.

Isaac's brows rose in interest as Derek heaved a sigh. “What's he talking about?” The curly-haired boy asked, his tone cautious as he stared at the side of Derek's head. “Did I miss something? Does this have something to do with what happened after you left?” The teen voiced, a heavy sense of blame hanging off the end of his words.

“It doesn't matter,” Derek tried to excuse as he felt the familiar acid of guilt scorch his throat. “Even with Scott, we wouldn't be any closer to finding Erica and Boyd.”

“That's not what I asked.” Isaac retorted evenly in a moment of infrequent bravery as he called out his own alpha's bluff. “You never did explain why you weren’t there at the end.” He added, a darkness clouding his eyes that unnerved Derek.

“Just forget about it, okay?” Derek gruffly shouted, rising to his feet and glaring at his beta as he fumed. “None of this is going to help us. We need to focus on the task at hand.” Derek tried to regain control over the situation, but deep down, he already knew that the truth had slipped through his fingers.

“I can't believe it,” Peter clapped, his tone mocking. “You haven't told him. He doesn't know.” A laugh bubbled past his uncle's lips even as Derek turned his stare onto him, burning him with red eyes of hate. “Oh, this is too good.” Peter crowed. “You mean all this time, you had no idea what happened that night or why Derek and I weren’t around?”

Derek turned his back to the two men, pressing his eyes shut as images of his failure flashed in his memory. The sensation of falling tugged at his gut. “Stop this, Peter.” He found himself pleading. “Give me more time to figure this out. Then, you can tell the whole world whatever you want.”

“No,” Isaac shot back, his voice hostile as waves of anger drenched the air between them. “You tell me what's going on, and you tell me now. I want answers.”

Derek glanced over his shoulder at the teen, startled to see the resolve shining in Isaac's gaze. His stare flickered over to Peter for a second, but the older man merely shrugged, raising his brows unhelpfully as if to say; _'Do you want to tell him, or should I?'_ Clenching his knuckles as his hands wound into fists, Derek decided to at least tell Isaac part of the truth. He wasn't ready for everything to be known. Not yet.

“What do you wanna know?” He replied to Isaac, who had his features fixed sternly.

A moment of surprised silence rung between them before Isaac overcame his shock. “I want to know what happened that last night we fought the Kanima.” He began to list, shuffling his feet as he became more confident. “Where were you and why didn’t you show up until weeks later? Also, who is this Deucalion guy you keep mentioning and why haven't we been able to find out anything about Erica and Boyd?”

Derek closed his eyes. He hadn’t expected Isaac to confront him so quickly, but he supposed he should have. There was steel in the boy; it was why he’d given him the bite in the first place.

“Deucalion is one of the alphas in the pack that took Erica and Boyd.” Derek sidestepped the first question without even a thought. The truth was still too raw and he didn’t want to see the look in Isaac’s eyes; that tell-tale expression of disappointment that always preluded abandonment. Derek had seen that in Erica and Boyd and it had nearly ruined him. Now, with so much danger approaching, he couldn’t afford any weaknesses.

“They're professional. Strong. All of them are alphas.” He took a deep breath and centered himself. Isaac frowned but didn’t interrupt. “It's not unlikely that we'll never be able to find anything on Erica and Boyd that will be able to lead us to them. They're experienced; they know how to cover their tracks.”

Peter breathed out a laugh through his nose as Isaac's expression betrayed his fear and his anger. “That's an understatement.” His uncle detrimentally added, causing Isaac's skin to pale a few shades as his wide, young eyes darted between Derek and Peter uncertainly.

Derek allowed himself to express his gratitude to his uncle in one glance. There were times he hated the man, but now, he was just glad that his secret would remain hidden for a little while longer.

“This pack is every werewolf's nightmare.” Peter continued his distraction of Isaac. The only sign he’d noticed Derek’s appreciation was in the slight, mainly sarcastic curve of his upper lip. “They're older than anyone can remember, and they've been at this game far too long for amateurs like Derek and myself to catch onto them.”

Derek's ears perked and his nose crinkled in thought as Peter's words washed over him. He'd always known that they were severely outnumbered against Deucalion and his pack, but to hear that even Peter—who was painfully arrogant and stubborn—had to concede that he was out of his depth, set an entirely new level of panic to run rampant through Derek's thoughts.

“So how the hell do we stop them, then?” Isaac's voice sank with despair and fear. The anger he’d felt at Derek only moment ago was forgotten; _for now_. “How do we get Erica and Boyd back, if they're even still alive?”

Pressing a hand to his pounding forehead, Derek returned to his previous seat on top of a dusty crate. He wasn't going to be the one to answer that question. Even forming the words mutely, twisting his tongue around the syllables, felt like a slap to his face

“We can't.” Peter brusquely admitted for him. “Not if it's just the three of us, anyway.” He amended in a softer tone.

Derek frowned, looking up at his uncle questioningly. “You told me Deucalion had never been defeated, by humans, werewolves, or anything else out there. Who else would we need that could possibly facilitate a victory against that kind of threat?” He demanded.

A smirk that Derek didn't like one bit, crawled across Peter's face. “I was telling the truth. No one that we've heard of— _in modern times_ —has been able to come out on top against Deucalion and his pack.”

The beat of Derek's heart spiked as he caught the obvious exception in Peter's words. “Modern times?” He repeated as Isaac's own hope began to spread to him. “What do you mean by that? Has someone been able to take Deucalion down in the past?” Derek dared to wonder.

“Yes,” Peter affirmed tentatively as he placed his hands on his hips. “And no.” He finished, allowing the bubble of positive thoughts to shatter inside Derek's mind.

“What do you mean by that?” Isaac interrupted hotly. “Stop talking in riddles and just tell us what you know already.”

Peter smiled, pointing in the beta's direction. “I like this one, Derek.” He creepily intoned as Derek rolled his eyes at his uncle's dramatics. “What I mean, is that this didn't just happen fifty years ago. I'm talking ancient history kind of stuff, back when Greeks and Romans ruled the world and supernatural creatures were worshipped as gods.” He informed them, clearing his throat before continuing. “And even then, it wasn't exactly a defeat against Deucalion, more of a stale-mate.”

“Ancient history?” Isaac breathed shakily, almost as though he thought they were joking. “How ancient are we talking? This guy's still alive today, right? We're not fighting against some really old skeleton, or something, are we?” 

“Didn't you just hear what I said?” Peter incredulously shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose as Derek blinked and inhaled heavily. “This happened in the B.C. years of history when people died of every kind of infection and science was witchcraft. What are they teaching in schools these days?” He rhetorically questioned.

“But that's impossible.” The younger man was slow to process the information, staring between Derek and Peter like they were crazy. “This can't be the same guy. No one can live that long.” He shakily stated.

“Isaac,” Derek ran a hand through his spiky, sweat-damp hair and then scratched at his stubbled chin as he considered how to approach the topic in a way that wouldn't totally freak Isaac out.

“Werewolves lifespans are not in any way equivalent to a human's.” Peter impatiently trampled over the carefully phrased words trapped behind Derek's tightly closed lips, never to be said. “If you're born one, the clock starts ticking as soon as your body's reached pique maturity. If you're bitten, then it takes a few years for your body's aging to reach a more typical pace. That, combined with the increased survival rate in bitten teens, is why turning people when they're younger has a higher success rate than turning a more mature adult.”

Isaac's throat bobbed as he processed Peter's words. Derek could see that the new information was surprising to Isaac, maybe even frightening, but he could also see that his beta understood there were more important things to concern himself with.

“So, which is Deucalion?” The teen questioned thickly. “Bitten, or born werewolf?”

“No one knows.” Derek answered, pulling his hand away from his face and standing so that he was nearly at eye-level with the insanely tall young man. “There are legends that claim he's the first werewolf in existence, while other stories say that he was turned during the height of the supernatural era when humans were the ones looked at like freaks.”

“That doesn't help us much.” Isaac keenly perceived, his bottom lip caught between his teeth in a nervous habit.

“You're telling me?” Peter agreed. “We haven't even started talking about the rest of his pack, yet, and already, things are looking quite dire for our small, dysfunctional pack.”

“The rest?” Isaac wondered, his eyes narrowing as he took what seemed to be an unconscious step backwards. “What—I thought they were all normal alphas and Deucalion was the worst of our problems?”

Peter scoffed harshly, rubbing at the back of his head. “I wish, kid.” Derek's uncle stated, defeat already creeping into his voice as the reality of their situation bore down on them. “I wish.” He repeated.

Their uneven, frustrated breathing was all that could be heard in the warehouse. Derek clenched his fists. He could feel his heart in his fingertips. “Deucalion isn't your everyday alpha—to say the least—and neither is the rest of his pack.” He explained to Isaac, if only to say the words out loud, at least once. “He surrounds himself with curiosities; anomalies of the supernatural world.”

“Do we know what they are?” Isaac quietly pressed, a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his face as Derek shook his head.

“Shape-shifters; the kind that make legends.” He summarized blandly. “There's no way to tell which ones Deucalion has with him in this century, until we meet face to face. One thing we can be sure of is that they'll be the strongest of their kind, maybe even the last of their kind.” Derek voiced. “Which makes then even harder to kill.”

“You said there was someone who beat Deucalion,” Isaac turned to Peter. Derek could see by the way that his beta's eyes had glossed over, that he was holding onto the last shred of hope for Erica and Boyd's lives. “Someone who was able to match his strength and bring them to an impasse.”

Peter's lips rose in a feral, sarcastic smile. “Yes, there was someone. A very rare kind of supernatural being...why do you ask?” He seemed to taunt, drawing out his words.

“Just answer the question, Peter.” Derek impatiently demanded, crossing his arms stubbornly.

“Alright, alright,” His uncle waved him off. “You might have actually heard of him. According to some very hard to find legends which Talia was able to acquire during one of her many collaborations with a foreign pack,” Peter rambled nervously, so unlike himself; it irked Derek, but even so, he reserved his judgment. “The only man to have ever been able to stand up to Deucalion without getting killed, was called Hercules.”

“Hercules?” Derek growled. He couldn't believe his ears. Of all the times Peter could have chosen to manipulate and twist the truth, now was the worst. Red burned in Derek's vision as he felt his nails sharpening into claws. “You think this is some kind of joke? Erica and Boyd are going to die if we don't think of something?” He shouted. “I need your help, but if all you're going to do is send me on some useless goose-chase, I was better off when you were dead.” Derek snarled.

“Easy there,” Peter raised his hands apologetically, what seemed to be real hurt shining in his gaze, quickly masked by his own irritation. “I'm not lying to you and I certainly take this seriously.” Blue shone in his uncle's gaze as his voice tightened in indignation. “I'm really trying to help, but if you can't take your head out of your ass for more than a second to listen to me, then there's not much good that I can do.” His uncle exclaimed frustratedly.

Derek huffed, breathing heavily as his stare drifted over to Isaac. “It's not like we haven't seen crazier.” His beta supplied grudgingly. “Maybe he has a point. It can't hurt to listen.”

Pressing his lips firmly together and glaring at his uncle, Derek understood where Isaac was coming from. He supposed that if werewolves, kanimas, and many other supernatural creatures were real—some he hadn't even known about—then he'd give Peter the benefit of the doubt. Besides, he owed him for alleviating Isaac’s suspicions.

“Alright,” Derek regressed, his voice hoarse from yelling and the beds of his nails stinging as he regained control over his rage. “Let's say, for just one second that you are telling the truth.” He ignored Peter's smug expression, plowing forward as he prepared to cut his uncle's insane theory off at the knees.

“Where the hell would I find a Demigod, anyway?”

Derek felt a burst of triumphant pride as Peter remained silent. Beside him, Isaac watched the two Hales raptly. Peter's eyes hid secrets as the cogs seemed to turn in his brain. Finally, after what seemed like an age of silence, his uncle spoke.

“You might be surprised by the answer to that question.” He grinned, enjoying Derek's confusion as the words echoed between them. “Oh, I wish I could tell you more, but I think it'll be much more fun if you figure it out on your own.” Peter gleefully exclaimed, walking past Derek and slapping his shoulder as he exited the warehouse.

“What the hell just happened?” Isaac voiced out loud.

Swallowing thickly, Derek shook his head, frowning as he watched Peter's retreating back. “I have no idea.” He truthfully proclaimed. “But whatever it is, I'm sure it can wait. Right now, we have to find Erica and Boyd.” Derek prioritized.

Isaac nodded his head in agreement, pulling out a map from his back pocket and spreading it out on an overturned dumpster not three meters away. Derek took in the array of black X's crossed over the map. They'd searched nearly all of Beacon Hills with still no traces of Erica or Boyd.

He pretended to focus on the map as Isaac began crossing off the wide swath of green that made up the Beacon Hill's Animal Preserve, even as his mind remained stuck on Peter's cryptic message.

Somehow, he felt like he was missing a vital piece of the puzzle placed before him. A piece that Peter seemed to have but wasn't willing to share.

**#-#-#-#-#**

The air was warm and stale as it floated through the sun-stained house, drenching every nook and cranny in bright yellow light. Allison could understand now, why the plaster walls didn't seem to have paint on them. It wasn't from lack of caring or maintenance. It was because, in what she'd learned to be typical south of France weather over the summer, the large villa overlooking a field of grapes took on an amber hue that couldn't be replicated with paint.

At first, she'd hated the house. It was a prison, she'd known, so that her father could keep an eye on her without having to worry if she'd suddenly decide to go out on an unsupervised hunting trip. In France, as far as Allison had been able to explore, there didn't appear to be as many werewolf problems as Beacon Hills had constantly suffered from.

But even so, the house had grown on her. She'd started to discover it's charm and many hidden passages. There were more rooms than she could count on the second floor, some baring a semblance that they'd once been occupied—lived in—while others were barren, save for a dusty bed-frame which sometimes lacked a mattress.

Three months had passed by like three days, as soon as Allison had given up her stubborn mood and allowed herself to succumb to her curiosity, that was. The first few days had seemed like a lifetime. So much silence. Too many words in her brain, none of them fit to be spoken.

She wished her mother could be here every single day. Every single day, the pain in her heart and the shortness of her breath reminded her that Victoria was dead. There was only Chris now, only her father. Allison didn't dare ask what had become of her grandfather. That wound was still too fresh.

“Dad,” Allison called out into the large, stuffy hallway as she made her way to the kitchen. “Dad, where are you?” Her feet were bare, but even without the added noise of shoes, Allison felt the need to tread lightly. For some reason, when she was alone in the house, she felt like she didn't belong; almost like she was an unwelcome guest, even though her father had assured her that the house had been in the Argent family for over a hundred years.

A noise overhead caught Allison's attention as the boards of the upstairs hallway creaked, dust sifting down a few meters ahead of her. Allison narrowed her eyes, curiosity piqued as she moved to where the dust had fallen, staring up at the wooden slats that simultaneously made up the ceiling of the first level of the home, and the floor of the second level.

“Dad?” She called again, tiptoeing further down the hall until she reached the staircase at the end of the house. It was plastered, much like the rest of the house, but a window at the very top made up for the lack of light near the bottom.

Licking her lips, Allison braced herself and took her first step up. She was wearing a breezy, summer dress and as she reached the half-way point to the second floor, it suddenly occurred to her how impractical her outfit was, should she need to fight.

Her pulse pounded in her ears as she continued onwards, her hand skimming the wall to her left as she rose onto the upstairs landing, which was a nearly identical hallway to the one downstairs, except that the ceilings were at a normal height, instead of being vaulted.

Allison regulated her breathing as she resisted the urge to call out to her father one last time. As she rounded a corner, passing each empty room warily and watching the dust motes floating through rays of sunshine distrustfully, Allison found what she was looking for.

He had her back to her, and he was kneeling on the floor. His hands were both occupied with the doorknob, rattling and shoving a pin through the narrow lock hole. Tucked into the waistband of his casual cargo shorts, was a glock 34.

“Dad,” She uttered, barely a whisper, inexplicably feeling the need to be stealthy. Still, it was enough to draw his attention away from the lock he seemed to be picking and onto her.

His light blue eyes honed in on her, narrow and calculating, and it was in that instant that Allison understood the seriousness of the situation. Her spine released a tingle as Chris placed a finger to his lips for quiet. She idly noticed that none of the other doors in this hallway, or the previous one, had been shut.

Nodding her head, Allison gently made her way towards her father, skimming a forgotten knife from a nearby side table that hadn't been dusted in years, before crouching beside her father.

Her heartbeat so loudly, for a moment, it was all she could hear as her father gestured for her to listen. Frowning, Allison willed her body to calm. Eventually, she was able to hear the rustling and shuffling sounds her father had, behind the door.

“Oh my god,” She couldn't help from exclaiming, quickly clamping a hand over her mouth as she realized she'd spoken out loud. Chris didn't seem overly upset, but the hardened lines of his face reminded Allison not to screw up again.

Her father used hand gestures Allison was only half-sure meant for her to cover him as he continued trying to pick the lock. Eagerly standing by the door, Allison tightened her grip over the rusted knife and braced her footing, prepared for whatever or whoever could be hidden behind that door.

“One,” Chris counted under his breath as he pulled the pin out of the doorknob and placed it on the floor. “Two,” He continued, easily lifting himself onto his feet without a sound and drawing the gun from his waistband.

Chris stared at her meaningfully, the safety clicking off the gun as Allison raised her knife into a general striking position. He didn't reach three before his spare hand pushed the door open and the both of them burst through the doorway.

Sunlight blinded her from the open window directly across from the entrance and Allison had to blink forcefully to clear her vision. The rustling increased in volume, followed by a strange squawking sound. A harsh, deafening bang echoed in her ears as she was clearing sun-spots from her eyes. Her blood ran cold as her bare foot tread over something wet and sticky.

A gasp was strangled in her throat, sealed behind her tightly pressed lips. Allison turned on a dime, her arm curved so that the blade was like an extension of her limb. She found no werewolf or rogue hunter in the room. It was just her and her father.

Frowning, Allison followed Chris' unwavering stare from the end of the smoking glock, to the musty carpet beneath their feet. Only a few inches away from her current position, Allison spotted the source of what she'd stepped in.

There was a lot of blood. The dark red stain expanded over the carpet like a living being, devouring the cream coloured spools of wool before her eyes. In the center of the puddle, a heap of black feathers and sharp edges lay unmoving.

“Dad,” Allison breathily realized, adrenaline still surging through her veins and thundering in her heart. “Dad, it was only a bird.” She exclaimed as Chris kept the gun leveled on the dead creature. “Dad?” Allison barked with more force, startling him from whatever daydream he'd fallen into.

“Right,” He agreed gruffly, clearing his throat. He seemed to scratch the back of his neck awkwardly as the two of them stood inside the room, both equally embarrassed by their paranoid reaction.

And then, Allison began to laugh.

She didn't know why. It hadn't been that funny. In fact, since their actions had ended up killing a harmless raven, Allison figured she should have been more bothered. But she wasn't. She was laughing hysterically, her throat raw and her cheeks aching.

Chris joined her after a moment of confusion. His voice was deep and comforting as he chuckled, it reminded her vividly of her childhood, when he'd read to her after she'd had a bad dream.

Abruptly, an emotional dagger stabbed through Allison's heart, stealing away her breath. Soon enough, her relieved giggles turned to heartbroken sobs. Her eyes burned as hot tears tore across her cheeks. She couldn't contain her emotions any longer as her hands began to shake, the ancient knife falling from her grasp. It was all too much.

From what Allison could see through her blurry eyes and pounding head, her father was looking at her in sympathy. Strong arms wrapped around her as Chris hugged her. It felt like all the broken pieces she'd been trying so hard to glue together had finally fallen apart. The only thing holding her together anymore, was her father.

She gasped and blubbered like the child she no longer was. Her chest shook with the force of her grief. Her dad's grip on her became painfully tight, but Allison didn't complain. The constant ache in her chest seemed to lessen the harder her father held her.

“I miss mom,” Allison choked pathetically, her words pitching strangely as she tried to catch her breath, only to burst into even more sobs. Her fists clenched Chris' shirt until she feared her fingers would snap. “I miss her so, so much.” She cried desperately.

She felt her father's chin rest over the crown of her head, just like he used to do when she was a child. “I know.” He muttered brokenly. His own voice was raspy, like he too was crying. “So do I,” Chris assured her, rubbing her back with his callous hands. “So do I, Ally.”

They stood there, held tight in each other's arms for what felt like years. Slowly, Allison felt the fissures in her heart beginning to heal. There would be scars, she knew, but at least the internal bleeding of her loss had finally reached its end.

Pressing a kiss to her head, Chris hesitantly drew back, and it was only then that Allison realized how much time had gone by. In the window outside, she could see the bright rays of the setting sun.

“I should clean this up,” Her father gently spoke, his voice tight and barely controlled. Allison wiped at her moist eyes, nodding her head as she hiccupped. “I'll be back in a minute.” He told her, his hand lingering over her shoulder as he departed from the room.

Allison's legs were shaking. Her hand reached out behind her until it collided with the springy edge of a mattress she'd only vaguely noted was there. She sat down, wrapping her arms around herself as she became accustomed to the absence of her father.

“I'll call you if there's any more break-ins.” She suddenly spoke, gravel clinging to every word as she struggled to even her tone. A smile twinkled in her father's eyes as he stared back at her from the open doorway.

“Yeah,” He agreed to her attempt to make light of the situation, a far-off expression gracing his weathered features like he was thinking about something very different than what they were talking about. “You do that.”

He left without another word. The only trace of his presence was the leftover warmth bleeding out of Allison's body, the echoing sound of his retreating footsteps, and the dead carcass of a raven with a bullet through its chest.

Threading her fingers through her long, curled hair roughly, Allison sniffled as she stared into the lifeless, black, beady eyes of the bird. “Not your lucky day, huh?” She offhandedly spoke to the corpse. “Yeah, not mine either.” Allison replied to herself, licking away the salt from her lips.

Staring at the dead animal for too long raised goosebumps along her bare legs. She'd seen that bleak, gray sheen coating the beady eyes of the raven on someone else. A different dead body. The body of her friend, Jackson Whittemore.

Her back stiffened as unpleasant memories filtered into her mind. Allison shook her head, trying to dispel the images. Swallowing thickly, she directed her eyes to look out of the open window and stare into the setting sun.

What caught her attention, instead, were the iron bars welded over the top half of the window. Beneath them were a set of wooden shutters with engravings etched into them. They were swinging in the evening breeze, left open even though there was a lock that told Allison they too, could be bolted shut.

“What...?” She asked herself in confusion, staring from the window and its strange fittings, back to the door she'd come in from. It had been the only locked door in that hallway, she recalled. Allison wondered if, were she to look, she'd find that it was the only locked door in the whole house.

An unsettling feeling bubbled in the pit of her stomach. Her gaze raked over the room in more detail. Everything she'd first noticed in her military-ingrained spotting of the room, was still there. But as she looked closer, she noticed details that had evaded her.

For one thing, the room wasn't empty, like most of the others. It had an ornately carved bedframe with a mattress wrapped in an old, stiff set of sheets. Her fingers flexed over the rough fabric as her gaze panned to the bedside table. A lamp rested in the middle of the small, utilitarian table. It had two drawers, one of which was missing a handle.

Allison's head tilted to the side as she noticed a set of long, deep scratches along the side of the table. She lifted herself off the flat mattress and knelt beside the wooden piece of furniture. Her fingers traced the carvings. Allison distantly recalled that some of the carefully engraved shapes were letters in the Greek alphabet.

She sat back, her mind racing. Across from the bed, on the wall adjacent to the window, stood a tall, cherry dresser. Allison felt the edge of her lips rise in curiosity as she walked towards the armoire to uncover more information from the strange room and whoever it's occupant could have been.

The sides of the dresser were clear of the carvings that the night table had. As Allison carefully inspected the top, her fingers bumped against a solid object and pain flared in her hand.

“Ouch!” She breathed in surprise, drawing her hand back. The side of her palm was bleeding but as Allison wiped it away with her other hand, she noticed that the cut wasn't deep. “What are you?” Allison muttered to herself, frowning at the dusty top of the dresser, which was just a few inches too high for her to see over.

Hesitantly, Allison stretched out her other hand, ignoring the tingly, throbbing sensation in her injured palm, to carefully search the top of the dresser. This time, when her fingers found the same sharp edge, she didn't draw back. Her fingers feathered along what felt to be a metal surface, coming to a halt over a pliable, leather handle.

“You've got to be kidding me.” She voiced her disbelief as she grabbed hold of the item, pulling it into clear view. Just as she'd suspected, she held a sharp, metal dagger. A layer of thick dust coated the blade which she swept away with her fingers.

Allison had half expected the surface to be mottled with rust and oxidized in that gray, translucent way she knew silver did when it wasn't polished. Instead, the blade closely resembled the surface of a mirror. Her own face stared back at her as she tilted the shiny, captivating surface in order to catch the rays of light coming in from the barred window.

“I couldn't find any carpet cleaner,” Her father's voice interrupted her jumbled thoughts, echoing from down the hall. “So, we'll have to make due with bleach.” She couldn't hear his footsteps and had to remind herself not to panic. He'd probably removed the ugly flip-flops he'd been wearing so that he wouldn't scare her.

“We need to get some more supplies,” He continued, entering the room holding a bucket of what really did seem to be bleach, his expression forcibly cheerful until he noticed what she was holding. “Where'd you find that?” Chris wondered before Allison could decide whether she still had time to hide the knife from him.

“Um,” She stuttered, taking a moment to quell the sudden wave of nerves flooding her system. “It was on top of the dresser.” Allison settled for admitting, motioning in the direction of the armoire with her chin while maintaining eye contact with her father.

“On top of the dresser?” He repeated, one brow rising in confusion as he ostensibly processed her claim. Allison felt like she'd been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She shook away the feeling as Chris set down the cleaning supplies and approached her.

He stopped abruptly, halfway across the carpet. “Dad?” She wondered, watching as he seemed to survey the carcass of the raven. She briefly wondered if he felt guilty for killing the creature, but then thought better of it. “What is it?” Allison asked.

Narrowing his eyes further, her father knelt down beside the bird, his fingers carefully dipping into the puddle of crimson blood that had nearly seeped all the way through the carpet. “Wasn't there more blood before I left?” He cautiously posed, glancing up at her for confirmation.

Allison felt her lips tilt to the side in concentration. “I don't know,” She shared, the knife all but forgotten for the moment. “I guess.”

Chris shook his head as his jaw tightened. “No,” He spoke, his eyes alighting with certainty. “I know there was more blood.”

The back of his hand pushed away the dead bird without a hint of disgust. Allison noticed that the bird was now facing upwards, feathers sticking out at odd angles, blood congealed to the bullet wound. “What are you looking for?” She questioned her father as he probed at the bloodstain. The tips of his fingers were coated in blood, but he didn't seem to mind.

“This house was built shortly after the French Revolution,” He stated absently, pressing down on the carpet, which squelched, seeping some of the blood it had absorbed back to the surface. “Kate and I grew up here as kids after Gerard decided that an American childhood would taint our hunter's instincts. We fought over rooms, even though there are more than enough to go around.” He shared.

Allison found herself drawn towards her father the longer he talked. It wasn't common that he told her things about Kate, now that her aunt was dead. “Kate ended up winning a round of target practice for her room at the front of the house.” Chris informed her as a smile pulled at his lips. “And, as the loser, I got one of the rooms on the east wing.”

“Dad,” Allison gently interceded. “Not that I don't like to hear things about your childhood, but what relevance does any of this have?” She couldn't help pointing out.

Chris ruffled her hair with his spare hand and Allison was glad that she wouldn't have to wash out blood from her curls. “The east wing is the oldest part of the house,” Her father proudly shared. “And, since it was built during such a time of unrest in France, there are quite a few interesting secrets that the walls hide.”

Biting her lip, Allison watched as Chris pressed down again on the carpet, allowing even more of the blood to rise to the surface. It took Allison a long moment to realize what her father was getting at. She puffed out a breath of air from her nostrils in disbelief, reaching out to trace the strange pattern inked in blood, before thinking better of it.

“Is this what I think it is?” She asked Chris, unable to contain her excitement.

Motioning for her to move over, her father pulled the edge of the carpet to reveal the thick, wooden planks of flooring beneath. “Shortly after losing my bet with Kate, I discovered a hidden compartment beneath my bed.” Real happiness shone in his eyes as they met hers. “Kate had never resented winning, until that day.”

Between them, seemingly burned into the floor, was the French _Fleur de Lis_ symbol. Allison had only recently learned that it was also their family crest. On either side, iron rings were bolted into the floor, thin enough that they wouldn't be noticed under a rug, but strong enough to lift the section of flooring Allison realized was cut into a perfect rectangle.

Her fingers traced the seams of the wooden boards as her father gripped onto the rings, pulling the segment of flooring upwards. “Wow.” Allison couldn't help exclaiming as she took in the neatly arranged arsenal hidden from them, until now.

“I've never found one with weapons in it.” Chris quietly ruminated as Allison reached into the compartment and pulled out a knife which matched the one she'd found on top of the dresser. “These don't look to be the age of the house. They're new.” He added, following Allison's finger as she traced the edge of the blade. It was just as sharp, if not sharper, than the first.

“What is all this?” She questioned, even more surprise spiking her blood as her father pulled out a box filled with real silver bullets. A spear was folded in on itself, tucked into the end of the compartment, near Allison's folded knees. Beside that was the familiar arch of a bow, its string wrapped around it for storage. A quiver of arrows was tucked beneath the beautifully crafted weapon.

“I don't think that's the question we should be asking ourselves.” Chris said as he pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook covered in dust. It was the only thing that didn't seem to be in pristine condition.

Her father's nimble fingers worked to untie the leather knot holding the pages together. As he did so, the book flipped open onto a random page. Allison noticed that the paper was stained yellow, an old-fashioned quill jammed between the pages that the book had opened at, as if whoever had owned the book, hadn't finished writing yet.

“I think what we should be asking ourselves,” Her father amended as he traced the final words written by hand in dark ink, in a foreign language Allison didn't recognize. “Is who these things belong to.”

Behind her father's hands, the pages rustled in the wind as Allison was reminded of the open window and its strange, imprisoning bars. Her eyes caught movement as what appeared to be a small, worn picture fluttered out from between the pages disturbed by the wind.

She reached beneath her father and lifted the picture towards herself so that she could see it. Licking her lips, she met her father's gaze, which was already set on her, and held out the picture for him to see. “I think I know who that is.” She admitted as the same surprise tinting her thoughts, rushed over her father's face.

“Kate?” He seemed to ask himself, taking the picture from Allison's outstretched fingers and holding it delicately, like it was made of nothing more than hope and memories, so easily shattered.

Allison nodded, the same awe clear in her wide eyes and speechless lips. “Yeah,” She was able to reply, breathless. “Kate and Adrianna.”

“She lived here,” Chris stated, as though he couldn't believe it if it wasn't spoke out loud. The picture in his hands stared back at Allison and brought to life a part of her that she'd thought had died after everything Gerard had done to her. “All this time and none of us knew. But she was here. She was _right here._ ” He continued.

The mischievous, smiling face of Kate Argent that Allison had always known was there, but something was different. There was a darkness shadowing her aunt’s normally playful features; a tired, haggard expression that contrasted the innocent, giggling child in her arms, startlingly. The baby had a a tuft of unmistakable dirty blonde hair at the top of her head and striking green eyes. Even at such a young age, though, Adrianna had the same eerie ability to capture Allison’s whole world in just one well placed look.

A chill crept up Allison’s spine as she regarded the young child that would grow up to be her misunderstood cousin. She allowed her momentary discomfort to settle into pity and sympathy, which steadily worked past the brick wall of hate Gerard had been responsible for constructing. Allison couldn't help noticing that there was no father in the picture. A dark, slightly translucent shadow clung to the edges of the image of Adrianna’s young form and Allison quickly disregarded it as being faded from age. How long ago had the photo been taken? Allison didn’t know, but she wanted to find out.

“Her life's been hard, hasn't it?” Allison couldn't stop herself from wondering, even though Chris seemed to know little more than she did. “Harder than mine.” She absently realized. The date, written in smudged ink in the top right margin of the picture, was two years after Allison's own birthday.

“Yeah,” Chris cleared his throat of emotion and Allison felt his burning stare lessen as he looked away from her and onto the window behind her. “Something tells me we don't know the half of it.” He admitted.

Allison licked her lips, placing the picture back into the notebook. She joined her father, transfixed by the prison-like bars and shutters which could lock her young cousin away at a moment's notice.

“I judged her,” She whispered rawly, clutching at her heart as a new wound began to open. “I hated her because of something she had no choice in; because she was good at the only thing that ever mattered in her life, and I had been kept from hunting my entire childhood.”

Allison's eyes burned once more with unshed tears. She turned to her father, her voice cracking before she could even speak. “I didn't know.” Allison was barely able to whisper, her words shaking along with her head. “I didn't know.”

She hadn't known the truth of Adrianna Argent's life. She'd had no idea.

“I know,” Chris assured her, reaching out to wrap her in his arms for the second time that day. “It's okay, it's okay.” He cooed to her like an untrained dove not meant to sing. Allison had to bury the yearning for her mother to prevent herself from snapping in half.

“It's not your fault,” Her father whispered into her ear. “None of us knew.”

But Allison was not a child anymore, no matter how much she wanted to be able to crawl back into the safety of her long-forgotten innocence. She understood her father's lie. It might not have been her fault for hating Adrianna, but the damage done upon her cousin because of it, certainly was.

**#-#-#-#-#**

He watched her barge out of the big house furiously. If he hadn't seen the tears glistening in her eyes, Pollux would have joined the rest of the group in wishing the young woman good riddance. But he had, and they spoke volumes of hidden loss to him, so he couldn't. Every demigod had a sad story, even if they weren't willing to share it.

Chiron's stare on him was unnerving. The centaur seemed to be able to read thoughts, but maybe he'd just lived long enough to predict people's behavior. “Go,” The wise man told him, giving him the final, irrefutable push towards a decision Pollux didn't think he could have reached by himself. “I cannot bear the consequences of her anger, should she injure herself trying to prove a point.”

Feeling overwhelmed by the sudden amount of responsibility on his shoulders, Pollux nodded his head fervently, hoping it would be enough to make up for his lack of words, before loping down the steps two at a time after the fuming demigod.

Pollux jogged to keep up with Adrianna Argent, who was walking much faster than any normal person should have been, even if they were angry. Unless, as he was beginning to believe, she wasn't actually angry. She was running away, much like he'd seen a great percentage of the Ares cabin doing when they were offended by something.

“Hey!” He called out once his legs started to grow tired. “Hey, wait up!”

Instead of slowing down like Pollux expected her to, Adrianna sped up. He growled deep in his throat frustratedly, but reluctantly picked up his pace to match hers. “What the hell are you doing?” She demanded, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye before refusing to meet his gaze.

Pollux grinned, his unusual purple eyes twinkling. “I'm here to help.” He exclaimed, not the least bit put off by the girl's blunt manner. “Hey, you're not wearing any armor.” Pollux realized, his head whirling around to look behind him at the camp's armory. “Maybe we should turn back and get you some.”

“I don't wear armor.” Adrianna snapped, her steps even and precise. She didn't seem to be breaking a sweat, even though Pollux was already panting from the effort. Although, Pollux consoled himself, _she_ hadn't been on watch for the past four hours.

“You...you're kidding?” Pollux stuttered, gauging her unchanging expression and wondering if this was her idea of a joke. “No one goes on watch without armor. You'll get your ass kicked.” He unnecessarily pointed out.

Finally, he seemed to catch her attention. She turned to him, stopping abruptly to look into his eyes. Her stare was like Greek fire, it burned into him. He almost wished she'd just kept walking. “Trust me, the only ass getting kicked will be the monster's.” She told him, her lips rising into a cruel smile. “Unless of course, you want me to kick _your_ ass?”

Her eyes narrowed, the dusting of freckles across her nose no longer appearing cute, so much as they were menacing. Pollux gulped, shaking his head as he remembered the warnings he'd gotten from the other campers and even his father, on the first day he'd arrived, nearly two years ago, to stay clear of the daughter of Thanatos.

“Okay,” He meekly replied, hating that his voice had turned shrill. “It was just a suggestion. Don't freak out on me.” He added in a stronger tone. The cool breeze suddenly didn't feel so gentle, tugging at his clothes persistently, like it wanted to tear him apart.

“Great.” She replied, her face momentarily hidden by a tuft of her frizzy, dirty blonde hair which was thrown about in the wind. Pollux couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic before she started walking at the same inhuman pace, jerking her head to clear her vision. 

Adjusting his breastplate self-consciously, Pollux kept up with Adrianna as they approached the north entrance to the camp. Thalia's pine had never looked as bad as it did in that moment. The bows were sagging, needles turning yellowish brown as the bark seemed to be drier than it had been only a few days ago.

He didn't comment as Adrianna walked up to the tree. She was older than he was by at least four years. He wondered why she wasn't with Luke, instead of allying herself with a camp full of demigods that either feared or hated her.

“Did you know her?” Pollux couldn't help asking as Adrianna's hand brushed against the bark of the pine gently, like she was greeting an old friend. “Thalia Grace.” He felt the need to explain when she stared back at him like he was stupid, or perhaps masochistic.

“No,” She shook her head, pushing away from the tree quickly, like she'd been burned. “I didn't know her,” Adrianna explained, her voice lighter than it had been before; the hostility between them had vanished. “But I did know Luke. He told me a lot about her.”

Pollux unwillingly felt his stomach tightening at the traitor's name. No one had said it since long after he'd left camp and tried to kill Percy Jackson. To hear it out loud again, after so many months, was unnerving. But then, it seemed Adrianna wasn't the kind of girl to shy away from things that other people didn't want to step into.

“She was brave.” He quietly added, worried that speaking too loudly would shatter the strange calm that had befallen Adrianna, and land him right back where he'd started. “Of all the things that everyone says about Thalia, they all agree on that.”

Adrianna glared at him like he was intruding on a private moment. Maybe he was. It wasn't like he knew the daughter of death well enough to be able to tell. “Thalia didn't deserve her fate.” She harshly informed him, walking past the tree and out of the camp's border as casually as if it wasn't even there. “None of us do.”

For a moment, Pollux just stood there, staring at her as she trekked through the dangerous woods. Then, she looked back at him, her brows pinched in frustration. “I thought you were coming with me?” One of her eyebrows creeped upwards, seemingly mocking him. He found that he couldn't speak, so he only nodded his head. “Then _come with me_.” Adrianna pressed, waving him along.

Pollux moved away from Thalia's pine and toed the edge of the camp's protective boundary. He bit his lip before the uncertainty overwhelmed whatever bravery he'd first mustered when he came after Adrianna, and forced him to take a step back into safety.

“You know, none of the other watch leaders go past the border.” He felt the need to point out. Pollux's pulse was fast and loud in his ears. He half expected a monster to materialize out of the shadows and swallow Adrianna whole, proving his point for him.

“And?” The other demigod wondered, her shoulders rising in an unfazed shrug.

“And maybe it's a good idea.” Pollux retorted, an anger sparking in his belly that neatly coated the sweaty fear clamping his heart in a vice. “Look, we can guard the camp without putting our lives at risk. The whole reason Chiron's put us out here is as a preventative measure. There aren't enough monsters out here at one time to overwhelm the border, even if we didn't take watches.”

The daughter of Thanatos placed her hands on her askew hips. There was anger in her green stare, but also a fierce sense of superiority. Her lips puckered as she rolled them, ostensibly choosing her next words carefully. “Is that what he told you?” She asked, her back to the forest that Pollux didn't dare take his eyes away from for more than a minute. “Or did you figure that out all by yourself?”

A hot, embarrassed blush splashed his cheeks as he faltered. “I don't know,” He admitted gruffly, not liking the way that Adrianna's smile became predatory. “Look, does it matter? I'm not going past the border. If you want my help, you won't either.” Pollux set the limit in a rare moment of strength.

The Argent girl laughed in his face, mocking and cruel. “I don't know what the hell I'm doing trying to convince you to follow me if you don't want to.” She seemed to talk to herself, shaking her head as she turned around. “I don't have time to babysit.” He barely caught her muttering as she marched further into the forest.

“Hey!” He called out to her, both indignant and fearful the farther away she got. “What about me? I thought you needed my help?” Pollux reminded her.

She turned on a dime, somehow keeping her balance among the branch-littered forest floor. “I never said I needed your help.” She snarled like a wild beast. He almost expected her to bare a mouth-full of sharp, monstrous teeth.

Pollux swallowed as he remembered the desperation that had tainted her voice as she'd asked Chiron for help. He knew that feeling. He'd been in her position, even if he did have his twin brother, Castor, to count on.

“You didn't have to.” He replied.

Adrianna seemed surprised by his answer. All the rage drained from her features as she regarded him curiously. Pollux could have sworn he saw tears gathering in her eyes before her expression hardened into stone and she cut him off from her again.

“Stay here, where it's safe.” She made fun of his previous comment, her hands wrapping around the handles of two knives strapped to either side of her hips. “I've got a job to do.”

With an impressive flourish, Adrianna withdrew the blades, twirling them by her sides before pressing them together, hilt to hilt, and creating a long, double-bladed sword Pollux hadn't seen before and wasn't the least bit familiar with. It didn't look Greek, but the shining metal and engraved markings clearly named it as such. With a tight, grim set to her lips, she turned her back to him and delved deeper into enemy territory.

“But…” He protested weakly, gesturing to himself and then back to camp. By the time he'd figured out what he wanted to say, Adrianna had disappeared into the forest. It was almost like she'd become a part of the shadows. No trace of her was left for him to follow.

“Great,” Pollux let his legs give way so that he dropped to the floor. The sword pressed to his leg was cold, celestial bronze. He pulled the blade out of its scabbard and held it up, allowing the smooth surface to reflect the dappled rays of sunlight breaking through the forest's canopy. “Just great.”

He spent hours under Thalia's pine, feeling like a complete fool for arguing with Adrianna and then an even bigger fool for waiting for her, even though he hadn't seen heads or tails of her since the moment he'd shown his cowardly nature.

“What am I doing?” Pollux asked himself. His backside was beginning to tingle, the nerves going numb from sitting in the same spot for so long. He rose to his feet with more difficulty than he'd expected, wobbly but grateful to regain feeling in the tips of his toes.

A twig snapped somewhere to his far left. His blood pressure spiked, cold sweat trickling down his back. He turned to face the direction the noise had come from but saw nothing unusual. Trees, shadows, and a scaly tail creeping along the forest floor.

_Nope, nothing unusual there._

He sprung to attention, gripping his sword so tightly he wondered if he'd leave a dent in the metal. Pollux didn't call out for help. He wasn't stupid. Monsters liked to stalk their prey and making any noise other than his own raspy, uneven breathing would be like setting off a firecracker for the creature to hunt him down by.

Pollux blinked sweat out of his eyes, reaching up to wipe at his brow with his spare hand. He shuffled his footing, uncertain what kind of stance he wanted to take. He'd been too embarrassed to tell anyone at camp, but he'd never actually faced a monster on his own before. The one time he had, he and his brother had run from it, escaping alive only thanks to the protective camp borders.

He was a son of Dionysus, for crying out loud; _the wine god_. He wasn't meant to be as brave as the children of Ares, or as skilled with a sword as Luke Castellan, Percy Jackson, and Adrianna Argent were. But he wanted to be. Oh, how he wanted to be as strong as they all were.

So, with great difficulty, Pollux pushed down his fear and settled into a comfortable defensive stance. He didn't know any flashy sword moves or self-defense techniques, but what he'd learned at camp for two years on basic sword training would have to be enough. If it wasn't, he realized a little hysterically, then he wouldn't be alive to regret it.

Loud, unsettling hissing echoed through the eerily quiet forest. The normal, _un_ supernatural life among the trees seemed to hold its breath along with him. His hairline was soaked with sweat and his hands were shaking. Pollux didn't have time to worry about Adrianna, or how the creature had gotten past her—that was, if she was still alive—because, in the next moment, he found himself face to face with a real life Dracaenae.

Pollux had read all the myths and heard all the stories. He'd been preparing for this since the moment his father had claimed him. But now he could see how very foolish he'd been to think that he'd been ready to face the monsters that plagued his world, simply by educating himself. Pollux didn't care how smart the Athena kids were, or how good they were at turning theory into reality; their method _sucked_.

Inhaling shakily, Pollux allowed his gaze to drift up from the two thick, snake-like tails of the Dracaenae—which rattled and twitched spastically—to the joint further up which lead to the trunk of the creature, resembling a very realistic, extremely terrifying version of a mermaid costume, all the way to the human torso situated above the twin sets of scaly hindquarters.

The woman's flesh wasn't normal. It was grayish, lined with strange veins which seemed to want to bubble into even more scales, despite their semi-human appearance. Pollux felt his eyes widening as the glint of the Dracaenae's sharpened claws, attached to her hands, caught the light, and a forked tongue flicked past her cherry red lips.

“What'ssss a boy like you doing out here all by himsssself?” The monster hissed, dragging out every 's' and only adding to her ophidian likeness. “Demigodsss are tassssty to eat. You should be careful.” She drawled, an ancient accent lilting her words.

Pollux licked his lips, raising his sword. “This is your last chance,” He bravely commanded, taking a shaky step forward as he prepared to defend the camp to his last breath. “Leave now and I won't hurt you.” Pollux threatened.

For a moment, the snake-woman regarded him, her beady black eyes sliding shut in a vertical blink. Then, as his words died in the air between them, she laughed out a raspy, hissing jeer.

“Foolish boy,” The Dracaenae taunted, moving towards him. She was either ignoring the sharp sword he held between them or was smart enough to understand that it wasn't much use to him, as her lips drew back to reveal pointed, needle-like teeth. “Sssuch noble intentionsss,” She mocked, shuffling both of her snake legs forward in a strange, dance-like movement before flicking out an actual forked tongue at him. “Too bad they were wasssted on thisss weakling godssspawn.”

Pollux swallowed thickly as something sinister alighted in the monster's gaze. He tightened his grip even further on the sword's handle, but it did nothing to quell the shakes that plagued his whole body. “It hasss been too long ssssince I faced a worthy opponent.” The Dracaenae goaded, afternoon light filtering through the overhead canopy and glinting off her sharpened claws and gleaming scales.

Anger tightened in Pollux's gut and, before he could think better of it, he swung his sword arm forward in a languid arc meant to sever the offending creature's arm from it's shoulder. Instead, the Dracaenae snapped forward like a viper and encased his wrist with her fleshy palm, the razor-sharp edges of her nails digging into Pollux's arm as he cried out in surprise.

“Nasssty demigod.” The monster disapprovingly chastised him, her black eyes narrowing on him and making his skin shudder in revulsion as he spotted a distinct set of longer, even sharper fangs inside her mouth than her other, strange teeth. “You will die for your trasssgresssion!” She cried out indignantly.

Pollux could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He didn't want to go out like this—weak, alone, and without even putting up a proper effort to save his own life—but he was so tired and, the longer the snake-woman stared into his eyes, the more fatigued he became.

His hands shook and he felt warm, wet blood begin to drip out of the stab wounds the dracaenae's claws had punctured into his wrist. He felt sweat dapple his brow and his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. “Let go.” He barely managed to cry as his strength failed him, the sword feeling ten times heavier than it had only a moment ago.

The dracaenae hissed out a laugh, her slitted eyes narrowing on him savagely as his weapon dropped to the floor with a useless thunk. “Sssstupid boy,” She rasped acerbically, her forked tongue slipping past her lips and fanning air into Pollux's face. “You should have sssstayed in your precious camp.”

Pollux couldn't find any words to contradict her. She leaned closer, her sharpened teeth glittering maliciously as saliva coated her mouth. It was clear to him that she was going to enjoy every second of his incapacitated misery. Pollux shut his eyes as her hot, stinking breath swept over his cheek. He suppressed a shiver as the monster's free hand gently glided up his other hand, reaching his neck and pressing down on his jumping artery.

“Thisssss will definitely hurt,” The creature warned, giddy anticipation in her voice. “But, if you are lucky, I will kill you before I eat you.”

Pollux swallowed roughly. He wanted to do something—to fight back—but he was all out of options. His only weapon was too far to reach, and he doubted screaming for help would do him any good. Besides, he'd already been embarrassed enough by how easily the dracaenae had disarmed him. He didn't need an audience to make matters worse.

So, steeling himself, Pollux prepared himself for the worst. Closing his eyes as the sharp, disgustingly warm tips of the dracaenae’s fangs kissed his jittering pulse, Pollux had one last instant to wish he wasn’t about to die before a wet slashing sound studded with harsh grating every few seconds rung across his ears, interrupting the dracaenae’s hissing breath.

Pollux opened one eye cautiously and nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized how close the dracaenae’s face had gotten to his own. A strange red line was present through the creature’s face, continuing down her torso and disappearing from Pollux’s line of sight. The dracaenae’s features were frozen in shock as a small trickle of blood dripped out the side of her open mouth. A moment later, the line widened into a gash, pulling the dracanae into two bloody halves that collapsed to the forest floor on either side of Pollux’s prone form.

It was then that Pollux saw his savior, Adrianna Argent, smiling predatorily at him with greenish black blood coating her face and neck. Her strange sword seemed to be steaming from the remains of spinal fluid and entrails that hung off the gleaming weapon. In her teeth, one dented scale stared back at him. Adrianna followed his stare and felt around inside her mouth with her tongue, cringing in disgust before spitting out the scale with a gob of bloody saliva.

Both campers took a moment to stare at the loogie, disgust evident in their expressions. “Yuck.” Adrianna voiced after a few moments, wiping at her face, and only serving to make a clean streak in the bloodied mask that she now wore. “Tastes kind of like sushi, though.” She commented offhandedly.

Pollux laughed as he sat there with the remains of the dracanae sprawled out around him. And then, to his further embarrassment, he fainted.

**#-#-#-#-#**

Her wrists hurt.

Of all the things to be preoccupied with, Erica was surprised to find out that the most bothersome thing about being kidnapped was having her hands bound. It wasn’t the humiliation of being a werewolf and still being helpless; humiliation was something she was intimately familiar with, and just like most things, it faded with time. It wasn’t even the throbbing in her ass from sitting on that god-awful, freezing cold floor for literally weeks, although Erica supposed that was a close second.

What bothered her the most, though, was the fact that her hands were held together by a freaking zip tie and every time she breathed, that vinyl contraption tore into the flesh of her wrists and gnawed away at her patience. The worst part was that Erica knew she could break her restrains—she had even done so on one previous occasion—but the sweet relief that followed wasn’t enough to make her forget about the punishment she’d received afterwards.

Those feral, demonic red eyes kept her up at night, now, sending shivers down her spine whenever she so much as thought about snapping the pathetic plastic holding her captive.

“Boyd,” She whispered cautiously, jostling her shoulder into the thick boy’s shoulder only a few inches away from her. “Boyd, are you awake?”

A low grumble was the only response she got from him, but it was enough to encourage her to continue. The vault that she and Boyd were being held captive in was furnished with cold marble and steel, so Erica made certain to speak as quietly as possible to avoid detection from the guard posted just outside the giant, locking door.

“What is it?” Boyd groggily replied when only silence hung between them.

Erica tried to collect her thoughts but couldn’t. There was a chill clinging to her bones, strangling her heart as the hairs on her arms stood on end. Something didn’t feel right.

“Do you think we’re going to die here?” She finally managed to utter, instantly regretting the question when the alkaline scent of fear permeated the air around Boyd.

Before he could answer with a lie that Erica knew she wouldn’t call him out on, the sound of approaching bodies rung in her highly tuned ears.

“Shhh.” Boyd unnecessarily warned her, his posture becoming rock solid and defensive as his right shoulder unconsciously drifted further in front of Erica’s chest.

Three figures materialized in the doorway. The two hulking alphas who, at least physically, couldn’t have been much older than she or Boyd, appeared on either side of the third person; a young woman with jet black hair wearing the shredded remnants of what might have once been a leather jacket.

Erica narrowed her eyes, which tingled as they burned beta yellow, on the unwanted visitors and watched as the twin alphas dragged the struggling woman between them as though her attempts at escape had no effect on them. Which, Erica supposed, was probably true, if she considered the sudden stench which wafted off the female comprised of coppery blood mixed with a familiar scent that Erica couldn’t quite name.

Boyd stood up as the trio got nearer, threading his long fingers through Erica’s hand and pulling her up along with him in one fluid movement. Another layer of scent hit Erica’s nostrils at the same time the young woman was pushed onto the floor and handcuffed to the very same barred wall which Boyd and Erica had been leaning against only moments before. This smell was instantly recognizable as _werewolf._

“Let me go!” The woman screamed, lashing out with her feet, and attempting to injure the twin securing her restraints. A small smile curled the alpha’s lips as he moved his body just out of reach and made certain to re-tighten the cuffs to the point where the woman was unable to contain her flinch of surprise at the cold, metal sting inflicted upon her.

“Feisty,” The alpha commented, flirtatiously lifting one eyebrow as he glanced over at his twin in amusement. “I like her.”

The other twin, which Erica was almost certain was called Ethan, rolled his eyes at his brother’s behaviour. “Shut up, Aiden.” He admonished without any real power behind his words. It was clear to everyone that the harsher twin— _Aiden—_ didn’t plan on listening.

A clicking, dragging sound rung across the stone room and sent shivers crawling up Erica’s spine. She held onto Boyd’s hand tighter as they shared an anxious look. Erica ignored the tingle in her wrists as the zip tie strained against the movement. The last time _he_ had visited, they’d had more than just broken bones to heal.

“What the hell?” The woman spoke, her tone taking on a worried note as she comprehended the alteration in Boyd and Erica’s moods at the approaching sounds. “What’s going on here? Who are you people?” She demanded to know.

The twins turned away from their newest captive in synchronized movements. Each of them took a few steps back and stood on either side of the room. To anyone else, it might have looked like they were taking guard positions for the person who was now standing ominously silent in the doorway of the room; but Erica knew better. The twins were posted where they were for Erica, Boyd, and their new guest’s protection, and not for the safety of their alpha.

“Those are all excellent questions,” Replied a deep, cultured voice with a slight English accent colouring each word. It was the voice from Erica’s nightmares.

The alpha entered the room. His cane flittered across the stone floor, to and fro, making certain that he avoided any obstacles which might have been in his direct path. The dark, tinted sunglasses that sat on the man’s nose took on a red hue as his neck swiveled to facilitate a glance around the room. The alpha spared only a cursory moment to stare at Erica and Boyd, as if relishing in their fear, before he directed his attention back to their newest captive.

“However, I have a more pressing questions which requires a very specific answer.” He continued, slowly folding his aluminum cane in on itself, the links quietly snapping shut and accenting the words that came out of his mouth next. “Do—you—know—Adrianna—Argent?”

The woman frowned beneath the intimidating alpha’s question, her brows scrunching together. Confusion and rage perforated the air as she narrowed her eyes calculatingly. Erica held her breath, hoping desperately that the stranger didn’t react the way Erica thought she was going to.

“I don’t make it a habit to learn my enemy’s names.” The woman quipped. Clearly, she had a smart mouth. And a death wish.

The alpha smiled patiently. Something unknown simmered beneath his calmly controlled features. The angry bravado began to drain from the woman’s eyes as she nervously readjusted her awkwardly sprawled position on the stone floor.

“Do you remember me, Cora?” The man asked gently. He stretched out the name that Erica assumed belonged to the woman with a fondness that was unnerving.

Cora’s throat clenched as she swallowed. “Remember you?” She repeated uncertainly. “No, I don’t remember you. I’ve never met you before in my life.”

The alpha nodded his head as though he had been expecting that answer. Erica felt her curiosity and her suspicions growing as the violence and bloodshed that the alpha had treated her and Boyd to when asking them the same questions, was yet to be dealt out to this Cora person.

“Of course,” The alpha replied. “Talia always had an overprotective streak. I warned her it would eventually cost her, but, well, what can I say; we alphas aren’t very good at taking advice.”

The words seemed to freeze whatever angry fire was burning in Cora’s heart because she suddenly slumped against the wall, all resistance draining out of her. Erica hoped that meant the end of her dangerously disrespectful comments, not for Cora’s sake, but for her and Boyd’s.

“How did you know—?” Cora wondered, her voice shrill and emotionally charged. She left the end of her question hanging, un-finished, but it didn’t seem to be an issue for the alpha.

“Not something that concerns you at the moment.” He barked out. “Now answer the question that I asked you.” It wasn’t aggressive; it was just a statement. It was clear to everyone that there would be no room for evasion.

“No,” Cora replied. For some reason, there were tears in her eyes. “I don’t know of any Argent called Adrianna.”

A moment of tense silence rang as everyone focused on listening to Cora’s heart beating steadily. It didn’t flutter or falter. She was telling the truth. Which was a good thing for her, but a bad thing for Erica and Boyd, because it meant that they were no closer to understanding what this man wanted with Adrianna Argent than when they had first been taken. More importantly, Erica had no idea what he wanted with _them_.

“Very well,” The alpha digressed, releasing his folded cane in a swoosh of air with just one swift movement. “Ethan, Aiden,” He nodded at each one, somehow able to tell the twins apart. “Unchain her.”

The woman’s eyes widened in shock. Without any hesitation, both brothers moved forward as one and unlatched the handcuffs which restrained Cora’s hands. Erica’s heart weighed down with disappointment as, predictably, Cora’s first reaction was to lash out.

She managed to elbow one twin in the ribs, creating enough room to move to the side and kick the remaining twin in the groin. Both boys stumbled, doubling over to recover their breath. In that moment, Cora sprung forward and launched herself at the alpha. Her eyes were yellow, her fangs and claws extended in a savage attack which Erica knew was doomed to fail.

Like flicking a fly out of the air, the alpha easily swept out his arm and flung Cora across the room. She landed in a dazed heap, her head colliding with a wall of safety deposit boxes.

“Ttt,” The alpha tutted disapprovingly, not the least bit phased by Cora’s attempts to kill him. “You should know better than that, Hale.”

Erica’s ears rung. She glanced over at Boyd, only to find an image of her own confusion reflected right back to her. “ _Hale?”_ She couldn’t stop herself from timidly sputtering. “As in, Derek Hale?”

Cora glared daggers at her from her position on the floor, somehow making her bloody lip and tangled limbs look murderous. _Yep,_ Erica realized, _that was a look she was very familiar with._

“It truly is a shame what happened to your family, Cora.” The alpha reminisced as he turned to walk out of the room, the recovered twins following close behind like the well-trained guard dogs they were. “But your brother should have known better than to trust an Argent.”

Cora frowned at the alpha’s back, lifting her upper body into a sitting position and wincing like it hurt to do so. Erica gave into the urge to help and cautiously approached the woman, offering both hands. Cora examined the proffered appendages suspiciously, eyeing the zip tie for a moment before accepting the assistance and pulling herself to her feet.

The receding sound of footsteps accompanied by the grating slash of the alpha’s cane across the stone floor was all that Erica heard before the deafening bang of the door closing rang through the room they were held captive in. The room which Erica was only now realizing was a vault, and as such, could lock— _from the outside_.

“Well that doesn’t sound very promising.” Cora unhelpfully commented.

Erica glared at the woman as Boyd shuffled over to stand beside her, his warm, bulky form bringing an irresistible sense of safety to Erica’s trembling bones.

“I’m Erica.” Erica introduced, gesturing to the boy beside her. “This is Boyd.”

“We’re—” Boyd stopped and shared a meaningful look with Erica. “Derek gave us the bite.” He decided to elaborate. Erica was glad he hadn’t finished his first thought. After running off, they could hardly call themselves Derek’s betas anymore.

Cora seemed to read between the lines. Her lips thinned together in a severe expression of mistrust. It was a perfect replica for the look Derek had given her when she’d kissed him during a practice brawl in an attempt to get the upper hand; all closed-off thoughts and private brooding.

“Great.” Cora disinterestedly said. “So, who are the alphas and what do they want with us?”

“We don’t know.” Boyd supplied. “But that guy you tried to attack, the one that recognized you—he’s their leader.”

Cora snorted in derision. “Fuck,” she breathed, startling Erica with the severity of her tone. “Does he have any weaknesses?”

Boyd shrugged and Erica bit her lip. Her hand flew to the back of her neck thoughtfully. “That was nothing.” She shared, her fingers touching the claw marks which were still healing in her skin. “He did things to us; he saw our memories. I think he was looking for something.”

Cora’s eyes darkened in fear, like she knew what Erica was talking about. They stood there, the three of them, inhaling the thick scent of hopelessness and rage. Erica secretly hoped that Derek would come to rescue them. Maybe now he’d have a reason to care, since a Hale was in trouble.

And then she thought about the alphas and the Alpha of the alphas, and Erica wasn’t sure if Derek getting involved would even make a difference.

Had Erica forgotten to mention that the Alpha was blind?

**#-#-#-#-#**

Scott stared at the screen of his phone as his world crumbled around him. This happened every time he read the last message Allison had sent him but still, Scott found himself unable to ignore the texts. It had been nearly three months since he’d last seen or spoken to Allison, but the wound was still felt just as fresh as the day after her departure.

The text was unexpected. He would have gladly put himself through the heart break of being dumped in person, if it meant he would have had one last chance to talk to Allison; to persuade her that she was making the wrong decision.

Instead, he was reading what amounted to the equivalent to separation papers from the one person he’d thought he could trust with everything.

_“Scott, I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye,”_ the text started.

Scott clenched his fists together tightly but read onwards. Somehow, he always thought that there would be a different ending, or he could somehow read hidden meaning in the words.

_“After everything that’s happened, my Dad thought it would be a good idea to get away from Beacon Hills for a while. I hope you understand that I need a break. I need to heal. I need to find myself. And I can’t do that if I stay in Beacon Hills. I can’t do that if I stay with you. See you when I see you.”_

The worst part was that Scott did understand. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. He understood that Gerard’s manipulation had done something to Allison; had broken some unseen machination that made her smile in the dimpled, carefree way of hers.

Scott clutched at his chest. The breakup wasn’t clean. Not like you seen in the movies where the female heroine slaps the guy because he deserved it and stomps off the set with satisfaction and a shiny new future ringing in the air.

No, this wasn’t anything like that.

This _hurt._

It hurt like an open wound in his heart, seeping blood every time he dared to reopen the damage by looking at his phone. Which was a lot, because those last words and the pathetic “ _ok”_ that he’d replied with were all that he had left of Allison. The day her scent had faded from his sheets and his clothes, Scott had realized that this wasn’t a typical break up. Even the full moons were harder without her, without his anchor.

That last sentence, with it’s noncommittal time frame and the phrasing so distinctly Allison that Scott could swear he heard her voice say it in his ear—only she was laughing, probably at _him,_ because he was stupid—made it all so much harder. He didn’t know when she was coming back, only that she would.

Scott sat back on his bed and put the phone away. Of their own accord, his fingers reached out and traced two concentric circles into the fabric of his duvet. This had been the only thing keeping him sane in the world he now found himself living in. Erica and Boyd were missing. Derek and Peter had turned up, as if by magic, and were refusing to acknowledge what had happened. And Isaac, well, he’d returned to Derek’s pack without another word; which confused Scott to no end because he was beginning to feel a strange sort of brotherhood with the curly-haired boy.

He’d wrongly assumed that everyone would stay in touch over the summer. Especially after what had happened with Jackson. All Scott had left was his job at the vet clinic and Stiles. It was almost as though he was back in middle school, before he was bitten, and he fell in love.

At that thought, he quieted. There was something he hadn’t accounted for. A niggling sensation in his chest, hidden under the pain of loss, that told him things were very different than they’d been before. Before he could dwell too long on the subject, Scott hear the crunch of Stiles’ jeep as it pulled into his driveway.

A grin stretched over his face as he forced himself to be positive. He stood up and collected the gym bag that held his lacrosse gear. As he stepped out of his room, Scott’s toe brushed against the new pile of books that was steadily growing near the doorframe. These were books he had read, one by one, in painful dedication to the new plan he’d set out for himself.

The _be a better Scott McCall plan_ , as Stiles had taken to calling it.

“Mom,” Scott called out as he heard the front door swing open, Stiles’ own key jingling as he struggled to get inside. “I’m going to play lacrosse with Stiles!”

Scott rushed down the stairs lugging his gym bag. Just as he’d known, Stiles was waiting for him at the door, his longer hair sticking up in awkward spikes. So was Scott’s mother, who looked like she was just about to inform him that Stiles was here.

With a fond roll of her eyes, Melissa punched Scott’s shoulder. “Have fun, you animal.” She teased him, although there was no fear beneath her statement. “Try to be back before dark.”

Scott grinned lopsidedly at her. He was glad that she wasn’t treating him like a freak anymore. That was one good thing that had helped him get through the summer. Now, there were no secrets between him and Melissa; supernatural, or other.

“Don’t worry,” He reassured her. “I’ll make sure Stiles doesn’t get into trouble.”

His mother smiled good naturedly at him; there was pride, gleaming in her eyes. It reminded Scott of the look she’d given him all those months ago, in the hospital morgue. It was moments like that which gave Scott strength. Moments where he could see himself achieving the stature that his mother and Deaton both hoped for him.

“Hey,” Stiles complained, completely ruining the moment. “I’m not the one that gets into trouble! Did you forget about the incident that happened last month, on the full moon?”

And maybe Scott was okay with things being like they used to be, with laughs and jokes and smiling mothers, but he was also confident that he would be prepared for the moment when Allison came back. Because, somehow, he knew that wherever the Argents went, trouble followed.

**#-#-#-#-#**

The scent was fresh, barely a day old by the time Isaac had stumbled upon it. It brought the first sliver of hope to be felt in a very long time. Which is why, despite himself, Isaac wasn’t certain he should trust it.

He was standing in the parking lot of the grocery store, which was not an unusual occurrence ever since Derek’s return, given that neither he, nor his uncle where very tactful when it came to remembering to eat. One hand gripped a box of frozen pizzas, while the other tried desperately not to crush the keys to Derek’s brand new, insurance-provided Camaro. The moon overhead was in its waxing phase, approaching fullness.

“Erica?” Isaac wondered as his nostrils flared. He tilted his neck and closed his eyes. A breeze blew across him, dragging her scent with it. Only, something wasn’t right.

When Isaac opened his eyes, they were shining yellow. A foreboding feeling crawled up his spine and made a home in his stomach, setting him on edge. Three months of running through Beacon Hills with a fine-tooth comb had produced no evidence or trail regarding Erica or Boyd’s whereabouts, and now, out of the blue, one strong scent near a grocery store, of all places.

His boots crunched on the asphalt as he turned around to follow the smell. The frozen pizzas hit the ground with a soft thud, all but forgotten. Derek’s keys found their way into the front pocket of his worn jeans. The thought crossed his mind to tell Derek; to find a payphone, borrow a cell phone, or even howl to the moon in order to get his attention.

Derek had never been easy to get a hold of, but Isaac hadn’t realized how difficult until he was struck by the sudden realization that he didn’t even know the man’s phone number, or if Derek had a phone to begin with.

The wind picked up, tearing the scent of Erica away from Isaac in the time in took for him to inhale. He didn’t have the luxury of debating how to contact his alpha. If he didn’t move soon, the only leads to Erica and Boyd’s disappearance would vanish just as quickly as the two betas had. Besides, Isaac wasn’t sure he could count on Derek to show up, after everything that had happened.

Resolving to go after the scent alone, Isaac moved further ahead, out of the parking lot and into the street. He was in a suburban area of town that had been mainly evacuated after the Kanima attack. Everyone thought it was an earthquake, coupled with a gas explosion. Most of the buildings on that block were torn to rubble or no longer in use, but Isaac seemed to recall that this part of Beacon Hills had always been sparsely populated.

He turned a corner as the scent grew stronger, crouching down beside the side of a strip mall. The wall was made of old brick. Isaac’s fingers gently touched the bumpy surface and came back red. He instantly knew that the blood was Erica’s. It was also the source of the scent.

Isaac’s ears pricked as a change in air density from somewhere to his left. A shadow cloaked the side of his face and Isaac cursed his stupidity. He tried to get up, but before he could even turn around, a strong hand wound around the back of his neck and pulled him to his feet. Claws pricked into his skin, stinging with a strange intensity. In the reflection of the store window, Isaac saw the glowing, red eyes of his attacker staring back at him.

“Look what we’ve got here, Ethan.” The one holding him growled.

Isaac struggled against the alpha’s hold. He attempted to use his elbow to slam into the man’s side, but only ended up hitting empty air. His claws slashed, but he had no accuracy when he was turned in the wrong direction.

“This one’s a fighter.” Another voice responded to the first. If Isaac’s hearing hadn’t been enhanced, allowing him to determine the exact direction of the words, he would have mistaken the tone and inclinations of both voices as one person. They sounded the same, but the words were very clearly coming from different people.

“Not much good it did the others.” The first man laughed, turning Isaac so that he could face his attackers. “Deucalion will be pleased. This is the last of Derek’s betas.”

The use of that feared, legendary name would have been enough to turn Isaac’s blood to ice and make a confusing jumble out of his thoughts, but to make matters worse, when he finally got a good look at his captors, Isaac understood why their voices sounded the same.

“You’re twins.” He breathed in disbelief at the identical men standing before him. They held themselves with matching postures and leather jackets. The man, who could have only been a few years older than Isaac’s own age, snarled in mockery at Isaac’s discomfort. There was a dangerous fire in his ruby red gaze that the other brother’s eyes lacked. It was then that Isaac understood one final fact about the twins.

“Twin alphas.” The second man corrected factually, baring a set of sharp fangs.

Isaac’s heart sank. He remembered what it was like fighting Derek in training. If he couldn’t beat one alpha, what chance did he stand against two.

The meaner twin, the one Isaac didn’t have a name for yet, snarled in union with the one called Ethan. Isaac shrunk back, unable to contain his wolf’s natural reaction to the waves of power rolling off both alphas.

“Just wait until you see what we can really do,” The first twin warned. “It’s a shame Deucalion wants you alive. I’d enjoy tearing you to pieces.”

Isaac narrowed his eyes. Somehow, he found his strength and managed an angry growl. The next thing he knew, the back of his head had made contact with the solid brick wall behind him, knocking him straight into unconsciousness.

**#-#-#-#-#**

The phone call came a day before their flight back to Beacon Hills. Chris had kept the cell phone in the side pocket of his cargo shorts for three long months, dreading this very conversation. Even so, when the trilling of his generic ringtone split the afternoon air, interrupting his packing, Chris didn’t hesitate for an instant before answering.

“Chris Argent.” He replied mechanically into the speaker. Before he had a chance to ask who was calling, and why, a voice he recognized crackled to life in his ear.

“Chris, it’s Deaton.” The Californian vet informed him. “I’m afraid I have some bad news about your father.”

A mirthless chuckle escape Chris’ lips before he had a chance to restrain it. If Deaton heard it, he was more than wise enough not to comment.

“Well, I suppose it was only a matter of time.” He shared, pinching the bridge of his nose as he pushed away a stack of neatly folded clothes in order to sit on the edge of his king-sized mattress. _Too much space for just one man_ , he ruminated, his fingers ghosting over the sheets, hoping to feel the warm indent his wife should have made there before he remembered Deaton.

“What is it?”

A pregnant pause hung between the hunter and the druid. Chris found himself holding his breath. Whatever had happened, it was either very bad, or very strange; those were the only two options which would explain the other man’s hesitance in answering.

“There was a break-in at the retirement home,” Deaton finally said, his words carefully measured. “Your father was found wounded. An investigation is being conducted, but so far, security at the home believe it to be an animal attack.”

“An animal attack?” Chris repeated incredulously. “Was it one of Derek’s pack, trying to finish what we started?”

This time, when Deaton remained silent, Chris found himself unable to contain the erratic beating of his heart as fearful thoughts began to crowd his otherwise militaristically focused mind.

“That’s right, you haven’t heard.” Deaton supplied, as though he was talking to himself. “Two of Derek’s betas, Erica and Boyd, have been missing. I’d assume they were taken some time during or shortly after the battle, while Derek was… _distracted_.” He settled on saying.

That was one way of putting it. Chris wouldn’t have been so mild. What Derek did that day was called desertion whenever Chris had seen it, and it certainly didn’t befit an Alpha. Certainly not a Hale; not Talia’s son.

“So, it wasn’t Derek or his pack.” Chris filled in. “Could it have been Scott? Or perhaps another rival pack that my father had recently crossed? We all know he had a knack for making enemies.”

Deaton repaid Chris’ dry sense of humour with a matching dry, unamused breath that could have been a laugh under any other circumstances, but just didn’t have the context to be one at that moment. If anything, it was a sign of mutual understanding. Clearly, Chris wasn’t the only one who had been in the business too long.

“Unfortunately, I can say with some certainty that the creature which attacked your father wasn’t a werewolf at all.” Deaton replied grimly. “I found traces of sulfur in the room and before your father was anesthetized, he spoke of reaching a cross-road in his life.”

A thin trail of ice cold sweat sliced across the back of Chris’ neck. “What?”

“That’s not all,” Deaton went on. “I was only able to see the room for a few, brief minutes, but in that time, I spotted what looked like a pentagram drawn beneath your father’s bed.”

“Shit.”

The curse was past his lips before Chris even had a chance to think. His mind was racing. After what had happened with the Kanima, Chris had finally come to peace with Allison’s involvement in the Argent hunting tradition, but this was different. Now he wasn’t sure he wanted his little girl going back to Beacon Hills at all.

“Christopher,” Deaton piped up, breaking Chris’ frantic train of thought before it had a chance to fully develop into a plan. “Do you know why this particular kind of creature has decided to come after your father? Any insight that you could provide would be helpful.”

“No,” Chris shook his head, forgetting that Deaton couldn’t see him. “Dad always told us—he never wanted us involved in that side of things. We were to avoid it at all costs.” He stuttered out, running a nervous hand through his hair as the implications of what Deaton was telling him began to add up.

“Neus chassons ceux qui nous chassent.” He quoted. “The Argents are werewolf hunters. We’ve been protecting Beacon Hills for decades. There are things that the French side of our family practices that Gerard and his predecessors agreed not to partake in.”

“I see.” Deaton ambiguously intoned. He didn’t question that Chris was telling the truth, but it was clear that he knew just as well as Chris did, that if it were true, Gerard would not be in the predicament he now found himself in.

“In any case, I think we both agree that it’s no longer safe for your father to reside at Sunny Brooks.” The other man stated. “What would you like to do?”

Chris clenched the hand not holding the phone into a fist. He was unsettled to realize that his hands were shaking. It was nearly imperceptible, but it was there.

“If what you say is true, there’s only one place in all of Beacon Hills that is safe for him, now.”

Deaton took no insult at Chris’ words. The druid seemed to realize it was just his way of sorting the information between speculation and fact. As of right then, there was an alarming amount that fell into the spectrum of speculation, and hardly anything that constituted fact.

“Very well,” Deaton said, his tone carrying an edge of finality that informed Chris their conversation was nearing a close. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements with Eichen house, then?” He seemed to ask.

Both men knew there was no other option, but Chris appreciated the sentiment.

“Yes, of course.” He agreed. “I’ll be back in Beacon Hills by tomorrow evening in the event that things don’t go as smoothly as hoped.”

Deaton signalled his understanding with a non-verbal grunt followed by a customary “safe flight” before the distinct click over the line informed Chris that Deaton had hung up.

Chris held the phone away from his ear, staring at the already antiquated flip design and keypad as his brain calculated the odds that his father had broken _another_ family code without Chris ever noticing. He just had time to realize that the odds were depressingly high before Allison walked into the room.

“I’m done packing.” She told him. “Who called?”

There was a slight skip in her step as she made her way over to the other side of the bed, inspecting the contents of his half-filled suitcase.

“Dad, seriously?” Allison asked, one brow quirking upwards disapprovingly as she scanned over the unpacked clothes strewn over his bed like she was appraising the evidence at a crime scene. “You haven’t even started. We leave tomorrow and you’re the one who told me we should be packed by tonight.”

She stopped her rant suddenly, and the lack of words caught Chris’ attention, pulling him out of his terrified reverie in the hopes that his daughter wouldn’t ask any more questions. Because if she didn’t ask, he wouldn’t have to lie.

“Dad, what’s wrong?” Allison wondered, her dark brown eyes narrowing in on him with a little bit too much shrewdness for her own good. “Who called?” She repeated.

“The airport.” He lied. “They wanted to verify our seats.”

Each word was a bullet in his heart. If he tripped in this strange dance of truth and forgiveness that father and daughter had begun, he was sure the lead would send him straight to the bottom of a very large, very unforgiving pit.

Allison didn’t believe him. Her lips pressed together too tightly for just half a second, and her posture stiffened unconsciously, but it was enough for him to know that she knew. Then she smiled, a dimple marking her right cheek, and the atmosphere lightened.

“Well I hope you told them we’re still going?” She prodded, only half-jokingly. “I’ve already lost one year of school that time we moved from Arizona. I can’t afford to lose another.”

Chris remembered that year. He’d been hunting what he believed to be a lone omega, when he’d discovered that there was another omega he hadn’t accounted for. Gerard and Kate had handled it. It hadn’t been clean. The family had agreed to split up for a year to keep authorities off their trail. In that part of the country, it wasn’t as easy to fool deputies and sheriffs as it was in their home-territory of Beacon Hills.

“Yeah,” Chris distractedly replied. “With any luck, this year will be better than the last.”

It was an understatement to say his words killed the mood. He’d never been good at this kind of thing. Victoria was the one who knew how to smile and make small talk. Him? He was good with a gun and not much else.

“Dad,” Allison whispered, clasping her hands together nervously. “What happened to mom; are we ever gonna talk about it?” She wondered.

Her head was tilted downwards, so Chris couldn’t see her expression. Her shorter, wavy hair brushed in front of her eyes. He wished it was still long and bushy. Now she looked so much older; a lot like her mother.

“Allison, I was planning on telling you…” He stopped. Allison’s eyes held his. Tears pooled but did not fall as two distinct lines appeared between her eyebrows. She was too young to have those marks, and yet, there they were.

“It seems like you planned on telling me a lot of things,” She said, her voice cracking ever so slightly. “But the only times when you actually followed through was when you had no choice.”

Chris was struck by how right she was. He could see the list forming in her mind. First would be the truth about werewolves. Next would be the truth about their family. After that, Adrianna’s existence, although that one hardly counted since Chris himself hadn’t been informed until the girl had literally showed up at her mother’s funeral. On and on the list went, getting harder and harder to bear.

“You’re right,” Chris finally spoke, just to put an end to the accusation in his daughter’s stare. Once, she’d only held adoration for him. “I’m sorry for not telling you; for not trusting you.”

He sighed, and the air he expelled seemed to have had a vital role in keeping him upright because he physically sagged forward after the action.

“I was just trying to protect you.” He admitted tiredly.

Allison pushed aside a bag of toiletries and carefully placed it inside his suitcase before she took a seat on the bed. “I know,” She responded gently, reaching up to push her new bangs out of her eyes, she looked at him— _into him_ —as she spoke her next words. “But I can protect myself now.”

“Yes,” He acknowledged, smiling as he thought about the hours upon hours of rigorous training that he’d put her through on what was supposed to be her summer vacation. “I suppose you can.”

It surprised him when she didn’t say anything else. She just sat there, looking at him, waiting for him to be ready to tell her the truth. It was then that Chris truly understood the task that had been set out for him and not for the first time, he wished he’d had a son. At least that way, he would know what to do. But teaching Allison to be a leader wasn’t something he had to do anymore; Gerard had done that for him, even if the other man’s methods had wrought a hell of a lot of damage along the way.

“Our family has codes. One of them, you already know.” He started, wiping at his brow just to have a reason to look away from that intense gaze his daughter had. It reminded him too much of all that he’d lost.

“Neus chassons ceux qui nous chassent.” Allison replied without thinking. Her pronunciation had not improved over the summer, but her comprehension had.

“We hunt those who hunt us.” Chris echoed in approval, nodding his head. “There are other codes, of course. For instance, our family prefers matriarchal leadership over patriarchal leadership.”

He was stalling. Chris stretched his hand over his shorts, flexing the muscles in his fingers before he continued. It was usually best to be quick and blunt.

“The code that pertains to your mother is a very old one. Nearly every hunter in the world has their own version of it.” He licked his lips, and he could swear that Allison leaned closer in anticipation. “If you’re bitten—if there is a chance for you to choose between becoming that which you hunt, or preventing that transformation, no matter the cost to yourself— you must always kill the beast.”

His throat tightened. He took a breath before driving home the point. “Even if that beast is you.”

Allison bit her lip. She wasn’t looking at him anymore. She was staring at her hands as though they could tell her the secrets of the universe itself.

“So, if you’re bitten,” Allison repeated, sniffling to clear her nose. “And if you’re a hunter, you have to kill yourself before you turn?”

When he met her stare, her eyes were red and puffy. Fat tears rolled across her cheeks. Chris’ voice got stuck somewhere between his heart and his throat. He nodded mutely.

“Is that what happened to mom?” She asked, her lips wobbling as the well of grief they’d both been battling for months sprung open once more. “Was mom bitten?”

Again, he could only nod. He reached out to console his daughter, to hold her hand, even to brush her leg, but she swatted him away.

“No,” Allison denied, shaking her head as she suddenly stood up. “No, that’s not fair. That’s not right.”

Chris thought his heart couldn’t break any more than it already had. He was wrong.

“I know, sweetheart.” He agreed, finally able to speak past the searing heat in his throat. “It’s not fair. But it was necessary. It was what your mother wanted.”

She looked up at him then, so intensely he was reminded of the hate she’d allowed to control her when Gerard was manipulating her. “How did it happen? It was Derek, then.” Allison accepted. “I want to know how it happened.”

Chris knew she wasn’t talking about the bite. Still, he felt it was necessary to tell her the whole truth. At least in this, he didn’t have to lie.

“She wasn’t as involved as she used to be before you were born, but when she learned that Scott was a werewolf, and that you were probably in love with him,” He gulped. This was the hard part. “She tried to kill Scott, that night at the rave. So, when he was defending Scott, Derek bit her.”

Allison clenched her jaw. “He never said anything.” She whispered brokenly, the tears already drying on her cheeks. “He should have said something. Why didn’t he say something?”

The last question came out in an agonized groan. Allison flexed her fingers like she wanted to hit something, or someone; probably him. Chris would have welcomed the distraction from the pain. Instead, Allison sat back down, not caring that she was rumpling his clothes, and placed her head in her hands.

“I want to tell you it was quick and painless,” He continued, wrapping an arm around Allison as she began to tremble with muted sobs. “But your mother was a warrior, through and through. Most hunters take the easy way with prescription pills. But your mother wanted to do it the Argent way.”

Allison leaned onto him, accepting is support. He was so relieved that she wasn’t pushing him away anymore, that Chris hardly thought about the words coming out of his mouth. He just kept talking until there wasn’t anything else to say.

“She used a kitchen knife. I helped her. She didn’t hesitate. She never faltered. She loved you so much, Allison. She didn’t get the chance to talk to you, but she wanted to be close to you, so she did it in your room. She was at peace, I think…I hope.”

It took several minutes for Allison’s sobs to die down, and even longer for her hiccups to subside. Eventually, when she was calm and his shirt was drenched, Allison said the words that Chris didn’t know he needed to hear.

“Thank you, Daddy.” She mumbled, sounding like the child she no longer was. “I love you.”

Chris stroked her hair, missing the length when his hands didn’t get tangled in her curls. “No more secrets,” He vowed. “From now on, we do things together.”

Allison looked up at him somberly. “Yeah,” She agreed. “No more secrets.”

The guilty stone he carried in his heart seemed to triple in weight, after that, but Chris knew he was doing the right thing. There were some things that were better left unexplained. Some aspects of the supernatural world should remain unknown to his daughter, Chris realized, for her own safety.

**#-#-#-#-#**

“Why do we need her?” Kali, or rather, _Archana_ , as she preferred to be called in such times as these, demanded of him. “If she’s not the half-blood’s tether, we should kill the Hale before she leads the alpha right to us.”

Deucalion pondered her suggestion. He couldn’t say that Archana’s opinions were without merit. It was true, Cora Hale was not the person they had come to Beacon Hills in search of. But to kill her, simply because her brother posed a threat, would be a waste of potential.

“No, Archana, we can’t kill the younger Hale.” He simply replied. His fingers wound tighter around his cane as he sensed the woman’s rising displeasure. “Although you are wise to point out the drawbacks of keeping her here, you have not measured the benefits which we stand to gain. Her connection to Derek Hale is precisely what makes her so valuable.”

Archana bristled, but her anger began to dissipate in hot waves that tainted the broad space between them. The cold, unforgiving floor beneath Deucalion’s feet was his only anchor point. He guessed that the room they were standing in was long and narrow, possibly a hallway. They were near enough to the betas that he could hear their heartbeats, but far enough that their scents were faded.

“Alright, Deuc,” Archana eventually capitulated, the rustle of fabric permitting Deucalion to visualize her standing before him, her hands resting on her hips defiantly. “Have it your way. But if Derek charges in here ahead of schedule, you only have yourself to blame.”

Deucalion smiled politely in Archana’s direction. He allowed himself to feel satisfaction at the skill he possessed to calm the other alpha’s ire. Not many people ever attained the talent his tongue possessed in their whole bodies, even if it took them a lifetime. But then, Deucalion had had much longer than a lifetime.

Just then, a commotion sounded from the entrance to the bank. Multiple feet shuffled across the stone floors; the twins, as well as one set of struggling feet Deucalion was unfamiliar with. He found his lips taking on a sinister curl as the trio approached.

“We have the last beta from Derek’s pack.” Aiden informed him. His voice was the same as his brother’s, but beneath the surface, there was a substance infused into the words that permitted Deucalion to easily differentiate between the two.

“Bring him here.” Deucalion commanded. The hand that wasn’t holding his cane stretched outwards, waiting for a chance to see his next victim.

The new beta struggled against Ethan and Aiden fruitlessly, grunting and snapping his teeth at the twins as though he had a chance to break free. Deucalion felt his brow rising in surprise. Neither of the other two betas had fought this long. Usually, by the time they were brought into the bank, the twins had already stamped out any desire to fight just as easily as they snapped bones.

“Still fighting?” He commented in amusement. “I would have thought that a bright young man such as yourself would have realized by now how abysmally outnumbered you are.”

The beta’s frowning face was shoved into his hand. He must have been forced to his knees, as Deucalion’s arm stretched downwards to get a better reach around the boy’s visage. Deucalion traced the contours of the beta’s forehead, his fingers brushing against a head of course, curled hair in the process. Next, Deucalion brough to life the boy’s elegant nose, then his high cheekbones, bowed lips, and chiselled jaw. It was then that Deucalion felt it, as his digits swept near the teenager’s left ear, like a series of numbing pinpricks attacking his fingertips.

Deucalion smiled with his teeth. His hand lingered on the affected area and the beta growled lowly in warning of his intolerance of the gesture. Deucalion ignored him. He had greater things on his mind.

“Hold him steady.” He uttered, finally removing his hand after the beta’s chest shook with vibrating anger. “Stand him up.”

The boy wasn’t as immature as Deucalion assumed him to be, if his height was anything to go by. He was several inches taller than Deucalion himself. It made it far easier for him to get a grip around the betas throat and squeeze. His fingernails grew into long, curved claws and easily sank through the meaty flesh of the boy’s neck, grazing against the vertebra with a shuddering scratch.

Instantly, the young man ceased his struggles against the twins, who were each strangling one of the beta’s arms. He gasped loudly, whether in pain, or shock, Deucalion couldn’t tell, and in the next series of instants, Deucalion was far too preoccupied to care.

Images flashed before Deucalion’s eyes. Sensations bubbled in his gut; feelings he’d experienced as a young man, troubled by trivial things such as attraction, desire, and primal instincts. A girl’s face began to materialize as Deucalion focused his search. First, the length of her lightly nose appeared, then her regal brows and vulpine, emerald eyes. Lips as red as blood formed in his mind, whispering sensually, fanning hot breath in his ear. Nimble hands wound around his arms, then up his neck and into his hair, tousling the foreign mass of curls that belonged to the beta.

The dissonance between himself and the beta became more pronounced. Deucalion took a step back from the vision, watching as the tall boy bent forward, his hand gripping either side of the girl’s face as their lips connected in a bruising clash. Hidden desires bubbled to the surface as the two wills collided in the physical and non-physical realms.

When the two parted, the girl’s lips were parted in shock. Her hand reached out to sweep across the beta’s left cheek, near his ear. Bright, green eyes shone with uncertainty as she gathered her wits to respond.

The vision began to fade, rippling as though Deucalion had tossed a stone across a lake’s surface, but he was still able to discern the content of her words:

_“I am in so much trouble.”_

_Yes,_ Deucalion readily agreed, _you certainly are._

A hand on his shoulder awakened him from his stupor. The familiar calloused surface of the palm informed him of its owner even before the man announced himself.

“Deucalion,” Ennis prodded, his silver eyes staring past the tinted sunglass lenses and into Deucalion’s blank, glassy orbs. “Is he the one?”

“Yes,” He replied, his voice filled with triumph. “He’s the half-blood’s anchor.”

With his nails still embedded in the boy’s neck, Deucalion spread out his senses, feeling for the connection he knew was hidden somewhere within. After only a few moments, Deucalion’s consciousness came across a sliver of brightness. He pushed onwards and the brightness intensified. It reminded Deucalion of staring into the sun when he still had his vision.

Wrapping his mind around the tether, Deucalion tugged with all his might. Somewhere in the distance, he felt a resisting pull shudder along the golden cord and into his bones. He’d made the connection, now all that was left was to send an invitation.

“Adrianna Argent,” He began ceremoniously, his canines sharpening into points as a shadowed presence shimmered before him, tinged with rage and god-blood. “Daughter of Katherine Argent, granddaughter to Gerard Argent, contender for the role of matriarchal leader of the Argent hunting clan by right of bloodline, and sole daughter of Thanatos…”

Deucalion paused, reveling at the girl’s spirit as she struggled against his will. She was foolish to do so, but undoubtably brave. He had a force of will which was superior to any other mere mortal’s will. He had the will of a god.

“Come to Beacon Hills or your anchor dies.” Deucalion snarled. “We need to talk.”

The girl’s form solidified from the shadows. Her once human features narrowed; her nose and forehead took on an aquiline profile and her skin and hair transformed into sleek, black feathers. Before long, what stood before Deucalion was no human at all, but a giant, very angry raven.

Deucalion’s eyes gleamed red, pulsating with power. He enjoyed a challenge.

Just as the demigod’s power approached its climax and she prepared to deal her blow to him, Deucalion let loose a roar so powerful, it shattered the windows in the bank’s lobby. The power resonated through the link, shattering Deucalion’s connection with Adrianna, but not before he heard her response.

“Be ready.”

And he was. Oh, how _ready_ he was.


	2. Rite of Passage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Here's the next chapter of this story. Shoutout to Acantunes and Cecily for dropping comments on the last chapter. Your support is much appreciated. I hope everyone enjoys this chapter. It's enormous and it took me a long time to write. All of my chapters are turning out to be enormous, these days, which means slow updates but complex story-lines and character development. Don't hate me. Anyway, tell me what you think of the changes I'm making to canon. I always love to hear your thoughts.
> 
> Vanessa <3

She sat up in bed with a start. The symbol of a caduceus rattled against the wall it was hung from as the alpha’s roar continued to echo in the otherwise still morning. All around her, campers were waking up, eyes wide and fearful at whatever had made the horrible, inhuman sound.

Her shirt was glued to her skin and felt like it was aiding in her slow suffocation as the garment was weighed down with hot sweat. Adrianna pulled at the front of her shirt, clutching at her stampeding heart, and unconsciously making a claw-like gesture that was meant to protect her. The back of her neck hurt— _a lot._

She narrowed her eyes at the moon, which still shone in its approaching fullness just outside, even as Apollo’s chariot lifted the sun into the air. Or was it Ra’s sun boat? Or just a giant ball of fire that turned around the earth? Adrianna had given up trying to know the difference. It was all the same, in the end. Monsters were monsters; they still clawed, bit, and tore apart whatever happened to be on the menu. Last night, Isaac Lahey had been the main course.

An anger took hold of her, searing hot and unquenchable in its wrath, as she thought about the alpha’s conceited demands. How he squeezed her like a child’s toy. How she was powerless to stop him.

“Be ready.” Adrianna whispered hoarsely.

Beneath the rage that crawled across her skin, demanding that she retaliate, was an ice-cold fear that held Adrianna in place, making it impossible for her to move. Isaac Lahey was held captive by an alpha that could literally show up in her dreams and command her to face him. Power like that wasn’t something to cross lightly. Adrianna had only ever known power like that to come from the gods.

But he wasn’t a god, Adrianna knew. She had recognized the animalistic sheen to the man’s eyes, and the sheer prehistoric aura that surrounding his life force. The stories her grandfather had told her as a young girl came calling back to her then; stories of the legendary battles Gerard had fought against tyrannical werewolves. One of them, he had blinded.

The question then, was what did Deucalion want with her that would make him go to so much trouble as using Isaac Lahey to contact her?

Isaac, who Adrianna had stubbornly refused to think about for more than a passing instant all summer. Isaac, who still muddied her brain and pulled at her heart, even when he was on the other side of the country. Isaac, who she’d unintentionally latched onto as an anchoring point in the storm that was her life. Isaac, who would die if Adrianna didn’t get her ass to California, soon.

Her feet hit the floor a millisecond later.

She didn’t think about changing her clothes, buckling the various holsters and straps for her weapons, and then storing said weapons in the scabbards, sheaths, and other leather compartments where she’d have easy access to them. Her brain was on autopilot. For once in her life, Adrianna followed her heart.

Adrianna was out the door in under five minutes, armed to the teeth. Her boots crunched the gravel walkways in camp as she hurried to reach Thalia’s pine. News had reached her that Clarisse La Rue, daughter of Ares, was on her way back to camp with the golden fleece; a cure for the poison that Luke had used to weaken the camp’s borders. Adrianna could only pray the girl came back quickly.

Standing on the hill, overlooking the bustling soldiers, none older than nineteen or twenty years, Adrianna faltered as her foot toed the camp’s boundaries. One more step meant she was leaving behind her half-cousins, embarking on a cross-country rescue mission that would probably result in blood and awkward family reunions. If she stayed, she could continue to look after the campers. If she stayed, she wouldn’t have to face the fall out of her actions last spring.

Her hands found their way onto the rough bark of Thalia’s pine. She scratched at the surface, placing her forehead against the tree as she shut her eyes, torn. To leave now, although help was on the way, would add another stone in the wall that was rapidly being erected between herself and the campers of Long Island.

“I’m sorry, Thalia.” She whispered, hoping somehow that the daughter of Zeus could hear her. It wasn’t that Adrianna had known Thalia well, in fact, she’d barely spent any time around her. But she’d known Luke. She’d known him better than most.

Adrianna thought about the insignificant progress she’d made towards contacting Luke Castellan. If she left, there was no chance of her being allowed on future quests, which was the only way she would be able to intervene in the older boy’s fate. But if she stayed, Isaac Lahey would be slaughtered, and it would be all her fault.

“Luke made his choice.” Adrianna realized, her knuckles turning white as she made two trembling fists with her hands. The decision was already made. “And I’ve made mine.”

She continued down the hill, away from camp Half-blood with the distinct feeling that she’d inexorably chosen the path her life would take from then on.

**#-#-#-#-#**

Her heart was in pieces. Even Lydia Martin had to admit that much.

She wouldn’t admit that she could no longer sleep through the night without dreaming of him. She certainly wouldn’t dream of acknowledging her reticence to leave the house for anything other than a quick grocery run for the entire summer. No, that would be too much for Lydia to concede.

But standing in the bathroom, staring at her naked reflection in the mirror, Lydia Martin couldn’t avoid the cause of her illness any longer.

Her heart was broken. It was shattered.

She’d lost weight. More than the ten pounds a walk in the woods during her fugue state had cost her. That was an improvement. This was not. Lydia had always prided herself in being skinny—you had to be if you wanted to fit into the newest fashion trends—but she’d never been unhealthy. Now, as her hands trailed over her bony shoulders, brushing across the length of her prominent ribs, and stopping at her jutting hips, Lydia realized that she hadn’t just stopped going out; she’d stopped _living_.

Her skin was pale, too. If she wanted to, Lydia was sure she could practice her knowledge of anatomy by naming individual bones and deep blue arteries which were barely hidden beneath her epithelium. It sent a shudder up her spine.

On the counter beside a vast array of makeup and hair products that Lydia hadn’t used in months, her phone buzzed. The sound was numbing, blending well with the static in her brain. She reached out to see what nonsensical trivia the world was going to through at her now.

It was a text from Allison.

That gave Lydia pause. She didn’t open the text, allowing herself to ruminate on what it meant that this was the first time in nearly three months she’d heard from her supposed best friend. For a moment, Lydia felt spiteful. She wanted to delete the text and never talk to Allison again; her thumb even pressed against the screen, a moment away from completing the swiping motion that would serve to obliterate her ties to the Argent—to _all_ of the Argents.

And then she remembered. She analyzed and calculated. Lydia hadn’t been the only one to lose someone, last summer. Allison’s mother had died, so perhaps she had a right to grieve, even if that meant Lydia had been left all alone in Beacon Hills with no one to talk to.

Well, that wasn’t _entirely_ true. There was still Stiles. Yes, Stiles, of all people. For some unknown reason, the thought of the spastic boy lifted her spirits, nearly drawing a smile across her thoughtfully puckered lips. He’d been checking in on her every week since the end of school. No, since before then. Since that day she refused to think about.

It was her fault, really, that she hadn’t left the house. Stiles had offered to include her in his regular outings with Scott, but the idea of going out there and being seen with Scott and Stiles wasn’t something she could wrap her head around.

Lydia’s eyes stung. That was a lie. She was lying to herself. She hated it when she did that.

It wasn’t who she was seen _with_ , that bothered Lydia so much. It was who she was seen _without_.

His name nearly fell out of the cage that she’d locked his memory into. It was only a second buzzing of her phone that managed to avoid the disaster that nearly ensued. She breathed in and then out, steadying herself as the messages flashed before her hazel eyes.

_“Boarding my flight back to Beacon Hills,”_ it read. “ _I’ll see you tonight?”_

The question mark at the end of the text felt heavy to Lydia. It was a silent admittance of Allison’s blatant disregard for Lydia’s own situation. It was also an olive branch. Allison still wanted to be friends. And she was coming back, tonight. She wanted to meet her.

Panic set Lydia’s hands shaking. She accidentally dropped her phone. It fell with a muted thud against the pink shag carpet in her bathroom. Lydia looked back at herself in the mirror. She hadn’t weighed herself in a while, but her scrutinous gaze provided more than enough data to reach a conclusion. Allison could never know.

Lydia slid into a silk robe, rushing out of the bathroom and into her bedroom. She pulled open the doors to her closet and let loose a sigh she hadn’t realized was pressing on her airway, until it was already released. Her clothes hung before her in colour-coded sections. Jackets, tops, dresses, skirts, and pants were separated accordingly. Her shoes were displayed like the centerpieces they were on a shelf near the floor.

“Let’s see,” She hummed, reaching out for an A-line dress, and searching for a cardigan which matched the print. “Prada, or Gucci?” Lydia wondered as she appraised her collection of handbags.

She didn’t have to worry any more. With the appropriate style choices, Lydia would be able to keep her condition a secret from Allison, and the girl would be none the wiser. Lydia stretched out her clothes across the rumpled sheets of her bed and sat down at her vanity. She set to work applying a generous amount of concealer and couldn’t help feeling as though she were building a mask. When she was done, Lydia looked just as beautiful as she always did, even if there was a new depth in her eyes that hadn’t been there before.

Lydia sent a quick reply to Allison’s text to inform her friend that yes, she would meet her tonight. Allison responded only a few seconds later, which meant her flight hadn’t taken off yet.

_“Great. Movie night?”_ She suggested. “ _I’ll buy the popcorn.”_

Lydia’s lips lifted into a predatory smirk. There was only one way that Allison would be completely fooled by Lydia’s pretense, and that was if she believed that the wound in Lydia’s heart had been healed. No, not only healed. Lydia had to make Allison believe that it had only been a superficial contusion, in the first place.

_“Don’t worry,”_ Lydia typed, her neck unconsciously lifting into a haughty, swan-like position as she committed herself to her act. “ _I’ll surprise you. There’s a guy I’d like you to meet.”_

For good measure, before Allison had a chance to contest the invitation, Lydia regressed in her scheming. “ _And don’t say no. It’s a group thing. Not a date.”_

Now, the only thing Lydia had left to do was find these boys. She was sure she’d think of something. After all, she was still Lydia Martin.

_Contusion._

The word stuck with her, bouncing in her head as she began cleaning her room to make it more presentable. The medical term for a bruise. The result of a direct blow or impact, such as a fall. A small, contained subcutaneous hemorrhage. Ecchymosis.

Yes, a contusion would be convincing enough. After all, there was no way to deny the fact that Lydia had fallen. She just had to make it seem like her heart hadn’t shattered on-impact; like her heart wasn’t in pieces.

It would be child’s play.

**#-#-#-#-#**

Ennis was relieved that Deucalion had finally found what he was after. For three long months, he’d been made to wait in sedentary agony, all so that his alpha’s plans could unfold precisely as Deucalion wanted.

It wasn’t that Ennis disagreed with Deucalion. The half-blood would be a valuable addition to their pack _if_ she agreed to join them. The logistics of convincing the demigod to even come to Beacon Hills in the first place had been exhausting to Ennis, and that wasn’t even considering how the girl would prove herself worthy of becoming an alpha among them. She wasn’t a werewolf with a pack, so she couldn’t kill her betas the way Archana and the twins had done. She wasn’t born to be an alpha through specific genetic lineage, the way he was.

As far as Ennis was concerned, she didn’t _qualify_ to be in their pack.

Yes, it was true that not all of them were werewolves. Archana had her magic, and the duality of herself and Kali. He had his own abilities, which had been passed down to him by his father before him. But in all cases, there was an animal hidden within. He feared that the god-child was not wild enough to run with wolves. Not by a long shot.

“Ennis,” Archana’s voice called from behind him. “It’s time.”

By this point, Ennis had lost count of how many times Archana had managed to sneak up on him. Her bare feet were part of the reason she was so quiet, but Ennis had a suspicion that her powers were also in play.

“That time already?” He replied, rising from his seat in the lunchroom of the bank, where the pack had taken to reclining when there was nothing else to do. “I was beginning to think the betas were growing on Deucalion. Especially that Hale. Maybe she’d make a good pet.” His tone was only a little sarcastic.

Archana’s hand gripped his bicep, her long, obsidian nails lengthening as her eyes flashed alpha red. “Certainly not _your_ pet.” She snarled, narrowing her stare on him.

Ennis didn’t have the other’s sense of smell, but he didn’t need to be a werewolf to know that Archana was jealous. He knew her well, which was why he loved provoking her in the first place.

“Would that bother you, Archana?” He jibed, leaning into her even as he felt her grip tightening painfully on his arm. “The Hale wolf is certainly of a good lineage. I’m sure she’d make an excellent…”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence before Archana attacked. Her nimble feet kicked out, meaning to sweep his legs out from under him, but Ennis was ready. He bent forward, pushing his full weight into Archana so that they both fell in a curving descent. Ennis hoped to crush her into the stone floor and revel in his unusual victory, but with Archana, things were never that easy.

Archana’s back bent with the motion, her arms extending outward despite his attempts to cage her in. She used her momentum to flip herself into a handstand, then over in a cartwheel until she was standing on her own two feet again, grinning triumphantly. He, unfortunately, did not have Archana’s reflexes, and so ended up in a heap on the floor. 

He blinked silver eyes up at her, annoyed that she’d somehow managed to wriggle free again. “How do you do that?” He grumbled, dusting off the legs of his jeans as he gave up attempting to salvage his own dignity.

Her grin broadened into a smile. It was vicious. He loved it.

“Go play with the kiddies,” She rolled her eyes at his transfixed expression. He knew that was her way of alleviating the tension. “We’ll finish this later.”

Ennis’ brow rose as the full meaning of her words hit him. “You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.” He chastised, rising from the ground as continued to stand by the door.

He made his way to the doorway, intentionally invading her personal space by halfway through. Archana inhaled his scent greedily, her eyes sliding shut as she no doubt detected his chemical arousal.

“Who said I wasn’t going to follow through?” She replied.

Her lips were narrow and curved like a find-crafted bow. He wanted to kiss her, to take her right there. The intensity nearly overwhelmed him, before he remembered that he still had a job to do. And Deucalion was renowned for his austerity when it came to timelines.

“Later.” He whispered heavily, his fingers reaching out and grazing across her cheek before he turned and strode down the hall, away from temptation.

He knew the way to the vault by memory now, but it had never seemed so far until now. When he finally reached the sealed door, Ennis had to force himself to take a brief moment to inhale before he was steady enough to open the vault and face the betas.

Four sets of eyes were on him as soon as the heavy door was set to the side. The blonde girl they had captured with the dark-skinned boy rose to her feet, snarling at him. The Hale, despite the chaos she’d dealt when she was caught, was silent and immobile. Deucalion’s presence must have cowed her bravery.

That left the dark-skinned boy, who dutifully stood beside his blonde friend, one hand reaching out to hold her back as he perceived the threat level Ennis posed to the weak betas, and the curly-haired boy beta the twins the twins had managed to capture three nights before.

That boy—Isaac Lahey—was the reason they’d waited this long before enacting their plan. Deucalion had an affinity for the dramatic, and a tendency to overprepare, but Ennis couldn’t find it in himself to argue now that everything was falling into motion.

He entered the vault and even without enhanced hearing, he was sure a pin dropping would have echoed like a gunshot in the silence that greeted him.

Ennis measured the betas. The Hale was distanced from the others. She would be the logical first choice for him to approach. She was not a packmate to the others, despite her relation to their alpha. He neared her position, keeping a watchful eye on the remaining betas, should they try to make a run for it.

It seemed as though all the beatings he and the twins had given out in months passed had finally paid off, because neither the blonde, nor her friend showed any inclinations of wanting to escape. Their eyes turned away from his stare after a few tense seconds, and Ennis felt it was safe to proceed.

He bent down next to the Hale, who was already looking at him warily, and reached out to touch her. She tried to scurry away, but her back was already pressed against the wall; she was cornered. Her eyes took on a wild, deranged look. It was the expression of a rabid animal caught at a dead end.

Ennis ignored the warning growl she emitted, scanning every inch of her face, memorizing her expressions and the texture of her skin. A moment later Ennis released his hold on the Hale’s arm, moving onto the others. The dark-skinned beta didn’t resist him like the Hale had tried to, simply standing stoic and silent as Ennis scanned the boy’s posture and brushed his fingers across the boy’s hand. The blonde beta reacted similarly to her friend, only she was unable to suppress a startled flinch when his fingers tangled in her curly hair before sliding across her cheek.

He turned to leave, before catching a glimpse of the Lahey boy’s glowing yellow eyes. Ennis knew that if Deucalion found out, he would be disappointed that Ennis hadn’t followed his orders precisely. But that was only _if_ Deucalion found out.

Ennis approached the last beta, who was on his feet with his claws extended and teeth bared in an aggressive display. Lahey threw himself at Ennis, but the Alpha’s reflexes were too quick. In an instant, he had the boy in a chokehold, hanging, suspended above the ground by nothing more than his neck. Ennis flashes silver eyes at the boy, drinking in his appearance and filing it away for safe keeping.

When he was done, Ennis tossed the boy free, sending him sprawling into the opposite wall. If the stifled grunt of pain was any indication, Ennis had broken a few of the beta’s bones. He grinned savagely at Lahey as the boy leaned against the wall, clutching at his chest, struggling to breath.

“You’re lucky Deucalion wants you alive,” He warned, backing out of the vault as the boy clenched his fists and seemed to prepare for another strike. “Otherwise, I’d kill you myself.”

Sure enough, the boy rose on unsteady feet and sprinted after Ennis, but it was too late. Despite the teen’s bravery, Ennis had been prepared. The heavy vault door slammed shut with a resounding clang, sealing in all of Derek’s betas until the moment when Deucalion was ready to enact his plan.

For Ennis, that moment couldn’t come soon enough.

**#-#-#-#-#**

His head hurt.

It was probably because of Derek’s incessant pacing.

“Will you stop?” He irritably demanded as Derek took another turn of the room. “Your feet are going to wear straight through the concrete if you do any more pacing.” Peter pointed out.

Derek scowled at him before standing still with his arms crossed in front of his chest. The ache in Peter’s temples lessened but didn’t abate entirely. He pinched the bridge of his nose to try to ease the pressure, but only ended up feeling worse.

“Are you going to acknowledge the situation or continue to brood in absolute silence?” Peter callously voiced as he gave up trying to cure the ailment and decided to ignore it.

“I don’t know what’s happening.” Derek huffed, finally sitting down on the large, leather sofa Peter had recently helped him to move into the loft both Hales were currently living in.

Peter snorted and rolled his eyes. Beneath the surface, a strange, cloying sense of helplessness manifested itself in Peter’s bones. “Perhaps a little recap of the most recent events will jog your memory?” He wondered out loud, strolling across the room to lean against the back of the sofa so that he was looking down at his nephew.

“Since the moment Deucalion and his pack of Alpha’s arrived in Beacon Hills, he’s made it his personal mission to systematically kidnap each member of your pack, starting with the most vulnerable; Boyd and Erica.” Peter listed casually, inspecting his nails as he wondered why Derek hadn’t interrupted him yet.

“Three months have gone by in which you, Isaac and I have taken it upon ourselves to selflessly seek out your lost betas, with the intent to somehow save them from a werewolf that could literally be hundreds of years old;” Peter reminded Derek. “And now, just when I was beginning to suspect that you were about to give up on your little suicide mission, Deucalion has taken Isaac—you last beta—right from under your nose.”

The last barb finally got a reaction out of Derek. He tensed where he sat, turning his head to stare back at Peter as his defiant red gaze narrowed. “Thanks for the information, Peter.” Derek said, thick sarcasm dripping from every word. “Because I’m just so incapable that I hadn’t noticed my _entire fucking pack_ had been taken from me, until you so helpfully pointed it out to me!”

Peter smiled even though he knew he shouldn’t have. It had been a while since he’d seen Derek this riled up. Which, he admittedly had reason to be. Although from Peter’s perspective, Derek’s betas were all as good as dead. There was no point to be angry. _Fear,_ now that was something Peter would have understood Derek for expressing.

Only, Derek wasn’t as afraid as he should have been.

“Oh, so you’re mad at me, now?” Peter mocked an offensive expression with great success if the tremor that ran through Derek’s shoulders was any indication. “I’m not the Alpha here, Derek. I’m not the one responsible for these teenager’s lives.”

“I know!” Derek exploded, his hands clenching into fists at his sides like he wanted to tear through the sofa, or maybe Peter himself. “Don’t you think I know that?”

Peter waited a beat. It was never wise to push Derek further when he was this upset. Better to wait until the anger had passed before pressing the issue. Peter valued his appendages, after all. And his face. He had a very handsome face.

“I just—I’m trying to fix this.” Derek finally managed to say, his voice much quieter than before. So much so that Peter wouldn’t have heard him without his enhanced werewolf senses. “I’m trying to save them, but I don’t know how.”

“You can’t” Peter told him bluntly. He’d never been a believer in coddling family. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for three months. You can’t save your betas; not when the Alpha that took them is _the_ Deucalion.”

Derek shood his head as he leaned forward, nearly crouched in defeat with his hands pulling at his hair. “I can’t abandon them again.” He whispered brokenly.

“You did it once before,” Peter rebutted. “What was so different then, than now? Everyone involved is still in mortal danger, as far as I’ve noticed.”

A snarl bubbled out of Derek’s clenched teeth. “I wasn’t leaving them with no other way out, before.” He justified feebly. “Now, there isn’t another person to take care of things. There’s only me.”

“There’s always Scott.” Peter reminded him. “You could let Scott deal with it.”

“I haven’t spoken to him since it happened.” Derek revealed, shame tinging his words. “Besides, why would he want to help me?”

Peter’s lips pulled back in a feral grin. “Because he’s a good person.” He pointed out. “He’ll help you in spite of your abandonment in the final battle—”

“ _Our_ abandonment.” Derek corrected acerbically. “You were there too, Peter.”

“Alright, alright.” Peter digressed, raising his hands in the air placatingly. “So, he’ll help in spite of _our_ abandonment because it’s the right thing to do. He knows Erica, Boyd, and Isaac need his help. He’ll want to save them.”

Derek was silent as he contemplated Peter’s words. Finally, he reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a battered cell phone. “Maybe you’ve got a point.” He admitted. “Without Isaac, we’re a man down.”

Peter felt his forehead wrinkle with the force of his disbelief. “No, I didn’t mean ask Scott for help.” He felt the need to clarify, because there was no way his nephew was going to be this stubborn. “I meant forget about there being any chance of saving your pack of misfits and victims and get the hell out of this town. Deucalion isn’t someone you want to cross claws with.” He added, for good measure.

Derek wasn’t budging. “I know what you meant.” He replied, deadpan. “But I think I’ve finally understood that your primary goal will always be self-preservation, above all else.”

Peter tried not to be offended by that. It was true, after all. But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

“Come on, Derek.” Peter urged one last time. “Don’t get involved fighting a war you can’t win. Let Scott be the hero of his morally black and white world.” He offered. “Real survivors—you and I—we live in shades of grey.”

Derek stared from the phone over to him. There was something vulnerable in his eyes in that one second; something utterly broken. It reminded Peter of the look he often saw in his own face when he allowed himself to remember the fire and the hell he’d endured afterwards. It was the image of someone who was completely lost, struggling with their last breath to hold onto the last semblance of normalcy in their life because, without it, all the walls would come crashing down.

“Maybe that was true before.” Derek allowed, the pads of his fingers thoughtfully rubbing over the screen of his phone. “But you of all people should know, we get choose whether we allow our natures to control us.”

Derek dialed Scott’s number with his green eyes still trained on Peter. He was pinned in place and even as Peter heard Scott’s suspicious, but still friendly greeting, he was unable to shake the sudden feeling of doom that Derek’s expression had imparted to him. Derek was making a choice that he’d come to regret, but there was nothing more that Peter could do.

Peter had chosen to embrace his animal, but Derek was deciding to take the path less travelled; he was going to rise above the wolf.

Or at least, he was going to try.

Peter knew how tempting it was to give in, especially when you were surrounded by enemies on all sides. Now all he could do was wait and see if Derek’s resolution would hold out after Deucalion got whatever he had come here for.

Because that much was obvious. Deucalion’s appearance in Beacon Hills was no coincidence.

**#-#-#-#-#**

The tattoo parlor was dimly lit and smelled of smoke. Aside from the artwork covering every spare inch of the walls and some of the grimy, battered countertops, too, Stiles saw no clear organization to the space. The platter of needles and ink that the tattoo artist carried over to the seat where Scott was trying not to fidget, made him uneasy.

“Are you sure about this?” He asked for the hundredth time in as many seconds. “You know, tattoos are pretty permanent. If you’re not sure, you could regret it for the rest of your life.”

“I’m sure.” Scott replied, readjusting his position in the plastic-wrapped seat as the burly, bald, bearded tattoo master unceremoniously plunked himself down on the stool directly beside Scott.

“Okay, because I’d hate to be stuck hanging out with a guy who had a tattoo misspelling ‘ _no regrets’_ as _‘no regerts’_ and have to convincingly pretend that we’re still friends.” He rambled, attempting to distract himself from the giant, sharp needle that the older man was tinkering with as he paced around the shop. “What are you getting, anyway?”

Scott smiled and Stiles noticed that the impressive growth spurt his best friend had gone through over the summer had done nothing to improve the crookedness of his jaw. In fact, it had made it worse.

“I’m getting two concentric circles.” He unfolded a piece of crumbled stationary as Stiles and the tattoo artist both leaned forward with interest. “Like this.” Scott pointed to his diagram.

It was a terrible drawing. Even Stiles, with his chicken-scratch handwriting and hyperactive attention-span, could have done better. From where he was standing, Stiles thought the two, dark bands on the piece of paper looked like an equivalence symbol in math.

“Good thing you made me a drawing.” The tattoo artist sarcastically commented as he continued preparing the needle. “Where you want it, kid?” He asked Scott.

Stiles bit his lip as Scott pointed to his upper left bicep. “I don’t do so good with needles,” He pointed out for no reason as the humming of the tattoo needle piercing his friend’s skin a thousand times seemed to rattle in Stiles’ skull.

“Too bad Lydia couldn’t come,” Scott teased, suppressing a wince as the tattoo began to take shape. “I was beginning to think she’d give in to all your pestering.”

“Yeah,” Stiles rubbed at his scalp uncomfortably. “She’s actually made plans to hang out with Allison.”

Stiles hated the way Scott’s jaw twitched at the sound of his ex-girlfriend’s name. “Ah, sorry,” He apologized. “I didn’t realize she hadn’t told you.”

Scott shrugged as best as he could with only one free shoulder. “We don’t talk, anymore.” He tried for casual, but it still came out sounding raw.

“Is that why you’re getting this tattoo?” The bearded man questioned. Stiles had nearly forgotten he was there. “To get over a breakup?”

It was nearly an unconscious thing for Stiles to communicate silently to Scott through nothing more than eye-contact. What had happened between Scott and Allison wasn’t a typical breakup. Stiles wasn’t even sure where to start. Most of the time, he and Scott avoided talking about what had happened three months ago because they just didn’t know what to say.

“Uh,” Scott struggled to find words. “Sort of.”

Unbidden, the man began telling them about his own breakup tattoo, which was located in a spot so close to the man’s but crack that Stiles couldn’t stop himself from laughing. He ended up pretending to choke on saliva. And then nearly feinted when he saw what the tattoo looked like (a scaly kani—er, dragon) and _actually_ choked on saliva.

It was as much a relief to Stiles, as to the offended tattoo artist, when the tattoo was finally finished. Scott, for his part, didn’t seem to have endured much pain, but then again, he was a werewolf.

“Why the two rings?” Stiles asked when they were back in his jeep, away from prying ears and eyes. “It’s not exactly in the top ten countdown of best tattoo designs ever made.”

Scott laughed, but it sounded forced. He had that faraway look in his eyes he always got when he was thinking of Allison. The large lump of gauze wrapped around Scott’s bicep reminded Stiles of different bandages. He tried not to think about how many people had gotten hurt before the summer started in what was being called a freak earthquake and gas main explosion.

“It’s just something I’ve started tracing with my fingers.” Scott shared, distractedly allowing his index and middle digits to move across his thigh in the same circular pattern that was now forever branded into his skin. “It helps with the full moon.”

“There’s a tree in the woods by your house that says differently.” Stiles couldn’t help himself from saying. He instantly regretted it when Scott’s expression pinched with guilt. “But at least we haven’t used the chains in a while.” He tried to put a hopeful spin on it.

He failed miserably, but Scott seemed grateful for his efforts. “It’s because of Allison leaving.” He admitted. “She was my anchor. When we broke up, I thought it wouldn’t be a big deal.”

“But it was.” Stiles finished for him.

“Yeah,” Scott weakly agreed, scratching at his bandaged arm like the tattoo was bothering him. “And things only started getting better when I decided I wasn’t going to let the full moon control me anymore.”

“So, the concentric circles aren’t a crappy equals sign?” He couldn’t help jesting.

Stiles was rewarded with an amused laugh before Scott shook his head in response. “No, it’s meant to represent the moon.”

“The moon’s only one circle, Scott.” Stiles pressed. “Unless you’re really drunk.”

“One of them is the moon,” Scott explained, choosing to ignore Stiles’ very clear dislike for the design. “The other is the moon’s shadow.”

Stiles swallowed hard. He had never heard Scott talk this way before. It scared him more than he wanted to admit. There was a depth to Scott now that didn’t match his age. The same could be said of Stiles, but he liked to think he’d been that way for much longer than Scott had; ever since his mother died.

“So, now I can carry both parts of the moon with me. The light side that shines brightly down on us, and the dark side that obscures all kinds of monsters we don’t even know about.” Scott licked his lips nervously as Stiles’ jaw hung open. “Now I can strike a balance between both parts of myself, without having to choose one over the other.”

Stiles didn’t need to ask which parts Scott was talking about. All summer, Scott had been in constant battle with his wolf. To hear that finally, he’d reached some kind of stalemate, was such a relief to Stiles that he couldn’t keep himself from reaching out and hugging Scott.

“Does this mean no more chains?” He hopefully asked into Scott’s shoulder.

He was glad that Scott couldn’t see his face when he hummed in agreement because Stiles’ eyes were more than a little damp. Finally, things might have a chance of going back to normal.

“Ow,” Scott exclaimed out of nowhere, startling Stiles into drawing back. “Ow, that hurts.”

“What is it?” Stiles wondered, trying to restrain his panic as Scott tensed in his seat, his hand tightly encircling the bandages around his fresh tattoo.

“The tattoo,” Scott ground out through clenched teeth, his eyes shining amber in the dark. “It’s burning.”

“Take off the bandages,” He offered. “Let me take a look.”

Part of him wanted to sarcastically remind Scott that tattoos were supposed to hurt, but there was something about the anguish in Scott’s face that told Stiles this wasn’t the kind of pain people felt after getting tattoos. Or else, he was probably the only sane person on earth for avoiding them.

Sure enough, as Scott hurriedly ripped off the bandage, Stiles gaped as the dark ink vanished before his eyes. It started out as a reddish blister encircling Scott’s bicep, before fading into a white line, and then disappearing completely.

“It healed.” Stiles stupidly surmised.

Scott glared at Stiles. “No shit.” He spat, only partly angry as sweat beaded across his brow. “I spent good money on that.” He complained in disappointment.

Stiles ran a hand through his longer hair, unused to the thick texture. “Well, we probably should have expected that.” He realized. “You are a supernatural creature of the night, after all. If you can heal from a bullet to the shoulder in a few minutes, a tattoo shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

“Stiles,” Scott complained in annoyance. “You’re not helping.”

The sound of Scott’s phone ringing interrupted Stiles’ extremely witty comeback. Scott rubbed absentmindedly at his bare arm as he answered the call. His reserved expression gave away the caller before he could even get a word out.

“Derek,” Scott’s jaw tensed, and his tone sounded guarded. “What do you want?”

Stiles silently congratulated himself on successfully rubbing off on Scott when his friend answered Derek’s unheard response with a sarcastic; “And why should I?”

The silence that followed, coupled with the concerned frown that pinched Scott’s forehead, did not bode well for the evening Stiles had planned to enjoy with his best friends before the full moon, which was only a couple days away.

“He needs our help, doesn’t he?” Stiles filled in once Scott had hung up.

Scott only nodded. He had a calculating precision in his expression that Stiles had never seen outside of class before. Like he was actually thinking, before acting. Stiles felt a little sad as he began to realize all the changes that had occurred in Scott’s life, and his own life since that day he’d dragged his friend out into the woods to find Laura Hale’s body.

“You know we can’t trust him, right?” Stiles continued, already knowing Scott’s decision without even a word being spoken from him.

“I know,” Scott admitted. “I don’t plan to.”

Stiles huffed as he started up his jeep. He looked over his shoulder, checking his blind spot before pulling out onto the near-empty road. “That’s all I can hope for, I guess.” He realized.

“It’s for Erica and Boyd.” His best friend somehow felt the need to explain, even though they both knew Stiles understood. “For Isaac, too. He just went missing today.”

“Shit,” Stiles swore, pressing down a little harder on the accelerator. “I guess that means we’re not going to catch that movie tonight.”

And for some reason that Stiles was more than a little guilty about, he felt a little more invested in helping when he realized that Isaac Lahey was one of the people Scott and he were going to stick their necks out for. Because, as sarcastic and unhelpful as that kid could be, Stiles was pretty sure Isaac had saved his life on more than one occasion last year.

If there was one thing Stiles couldn’t live with, it was an unpaid debt.

**#-#-#-#-#**

The house was the same.

Three months had passed and everything was still just the way she’d left it before going to France.

It infuriated her.

The fact that her room was still that creamy beige, and her closet was still packed in brown boxes, and her dresser was still plastered in post-its and pictures, and her desk was still wiped clear from that time she’d nearly lost her mind.

It shouldn’t have all been the same.

Things were _so_ different.

_Allison_ was different.

Still, like a gravestone over her heart or a mile marker on a highway, her room looked exactly the same as it did the first day that she’d moved in. Her mother had been alive, then. She had just been a teenage girl bereaved only by her own failure of a single school year because of all the moving around she’d endured in the two years before settling in Beacon Hills.

Allison’s fingers dusted over the top of her desk. There was an ash tray sitting beside her notebook. Inside, blackened powder was all that remained of her mother’s dying words.

Sharp and sudden, the wind was knocked out of her lungs. Allison shuddered as her fingers touched the delicate ash, coming away smudged black. She would not allow herself to fold like a house of cards. She was stronger, now. She would not buckle under the weight of her grief.

In the mirror hanging over her desk, Allison saw her expression. It wasn’t the cold, psychotic mask she’d donned in her twisted desire to see Derek murdered. It wasn’t the warm smile filled with dimpled, naïve hopes and dreams she’d plastered on each time she started at a new school, either. This expression was new.

She sighed, the built-up tension in her shoulders and chest releasing as she continued to inspect her face. Finally, something that wasn’t tainted. Even if she did have black circles from lack of sleep, and her blush wasn’t a natural one, Allison was glad that she had something new to hold onto.

“Have you unpacked, yet?” Her dad asked from across the hall. His voice was carefully measured, and his lips were set in a smile. Somehow, she knew he was just as disturbed by the house as she was.

“Yeah,” She replied, turning away from her image to face her father. “Although I hadn’t realized how much I never got around to unpacking the first time.”

Allison nodded her head towards her closet and Chris followed her gesture, his eyes landing on the neat pile of boxes sitting inside. The tape was peeled, but the labels were still there. Her mother’s handwriting was scrawled out across the sides of most of the boxes. Allison looked away.

“I guess that’s one habit you won’t have to continue.” He tried to jest. “We’re not going to be moving anymore.”

“Why did we move so often, anyway?” Allison wondered for the first time. “Was it because I didn’t know about hunting? Or was it just a part of the job?”

Chris scratched at his chin. The shadow of his stubble made him seem haunted, somehow. Allison supposed they all were, now. It was like some sick Argent tradition she now got a part in.

“I was running from Gerard.” Chris admitted heavily, leaning on her doorframe like he didn’t have the strength to hold himself upright. “He wanted me to be a bigger part of the family business, but I knew doing that would mean handing you over to him. I wanted to keep you safe and I thought staying in Beacon Hills would only make things worse.”

“Staying?” Allison narrowed her eyes in contemplation. “You mean we lived here, before?”

“Yeah, when you were little.” Her father affirmed like he hadn’t just supplied new information. “But we moved to Arizona before things got too complicated.” Allison supposed it was true. She did have a hazy memory of growing up in California, but Allison hadn’t realized it had been Beacon Hills, specifically.

“After Arizona, we moved every few months for those two years before Beacon Hills.” She was making a timeline, trying to piece together the truth. “Why did we spend so long in Arizona when we barely spent more than a few months anywhere else, after that?”

“I told you,” Chris answered with a finality that suggested he didn’t want to talk along this topic any longer than necessary. “I was running. We were both running, your mother and I.”

Allison nodded sharply, a little stung by her father’s rebuke. He sighed in frustration before entering her room and placing a conciliatory hand over her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” He told her quietly. “I know we said no more secrets, and I know you want to know everything, but I think it’s better if we do things slowly. Give us both time to adjust.”

“Will we?” Allison challenged, her chin rising as she met her father’s steely blue gaze. “Adjust, I mean.”

“We have to.” Chris replied.

He was right, of course. And Allison could already feel that it was becoming easier to move on. To breathe, to think, to merely exist without her mother had once seemed impossible. Now, she was living proof that it could be done. It was painful, but it was possible. As were many things, Allison had begun to realize.

“I have something for you.” Chris suddenly interrupted her thoughts. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and retrieved something. “Something I think you’re ready for.”

“Give me your hand.” He told her, reaching out and overlapping his fingers with Allison’s, creating a cup to enclose whatever he’d retrieved between both their hands.

Allison stared in wonder and perplexity as Chris removed his hand. Sitting in the palm of her hand was the familiar weight of a bullet, only this one was different to any other she’d used. This one was shiny and clean, as if it had never been chambered before, and engraved into the metal was her family crest, the French Fleur-de-lis.

“What is this?” She asked her father, rolling the bullet across her palm to feel the smooth surface in better detail.

Chris smiled the first genuinely happy smile she’d seen of him in over three months. His eyes gleamed with something akin to nostalgia as he gave her his answer. “This is the last Argent code you need to know about.” Chris told her, his voice filling with pride. “This is a silver bullet I forged when I had learned all the skills that I would need to become a hunter. This was my graduation from a boy, to a man in the eyes of the Argent family.”

Allison understood where her father was leading her with his line of reasoning. “You want me to make one?” She guessed. “You think I’m ready to graduate?”

“I know you are.” Chris replied without hesitation.

For three long months she had been trained—pushed to her physical and mental breaking points, and then far beyond—all in the hopes of being good enough, not only to lead what remained of her family, but to survive the cruelties and wounds this violent world she now found herself living in, dealt out to those like her.

“I don’t know how to cast a mold for a bullet.” She shared with her dad, allowing part of her uncertainty to be seen as she tightened her trembling fingers into a fist around the bullet.

“That’s alright, I’ll teach you how.” Her father reassured her. “But you probably won’t be making a bullet. Each Argent forges a silver piece for the weapon they use most often. In your case, you’re going to be making a silver arrowhead.”

Allison felt her lips twitching into a smile. Maybe the house was still the same, but everything else was very different. “Thanks dad.” Allison said in the hopes that she could convey how much this meant to her.

Chris rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. He was still unused to fitting into the role of father and mother. And Allison didn’t expect him to. She wished he could see that in her eyes, and maybe he did, because he seemed to breathe a little easier after that.

“Technically I’m supposed to wait for your eighteenth birthday,” He flashed her a conspiratorial smile. “But I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Allison didn’t dwell on the fact that she had no one else to tell, in that moment. She was happy enough to have one parent looking out for her. It was more than other people had, after all.

And if her thoughts temporarily turned to her cousin, and a flash of horror settled in her throat at the idea of what this graduation would mean to her, Allison couldn’t be blamed. She just had to push through those moments and live in spite of the pain, and not because of it.

**#-#-#-#-#**

It was the middle of the night, nearly four days after he’d been captured, when the Alphas came to get him. They didn’t explain themselves, or even give him time to properly rouse himself from the half-witted sleep he’d fallen into, before depositing him into an uncomfortable chair in a nearby room.

There was a large, rectangular table in the center of the room, and the blind man calling himself Deucalion was seated at the head. On either side of him stood the twin alphas responsible for capturing Isaac in the first place. He felt an angry growl building in his throat as he considered whether he’d make it to them before the two alphas at his back, Ennis and Archana, tore him to shreds.

“Put a muzzle on it, mut.” Aiden snarled as Isaac’s eyes flashed an angry yellow.

There was something about his tone that confused Isaac. Around him, the other alphas avoided his curious stare. He took a sniff of the air and inhaled the scent of stress and anticipation. The alphas were anxious. Their postures were stiff, except for Deucalion, who seemed at ease in every situation.

Something was going to happen. Isaac could feel it down to the marrow in his bones: the anticipation of a fight. He was ready. He would survive long enough to get free, and if not, long enough to release the others.

“How far?” Deucalion asked, breaking the tense silence with his calm, English voice.

The plastic restraints holding Isaac’s wrists together creaked as he tested their strength. They would be easy to break if he could only time the action appropriately. He knew he’d have mere seconds before the alphas reacted. It would have to be long enough.

“Five hundred meters and closing.” Archana answered Deucalion’s question. Her head was tilted, like she was listening to something.

Isaac frowned in confusion. He strained his hearing but wasn’t able to distinguish any sounds other than the heartbeats and chorus of breathing from the inhabitants of the bank.

“Excellent,” Deucalion exclaimed. His hand reached out blindly and pointed directly at the spot where Isaac was seated. “Bring the beta closer. I want him beside me.”

The burly, muscular form of Ennis approached from behind Isaac, hauling him forcibly out of his chair and dragging him across the table’s length until he was standing beside Deucalion. A deep gash in Isaac’s side twinged painfully at the forceful movements. The twins were so close, Isaac could practically taste them. He wanted to make them pay for capturing and beating him, but he didn’t think now was the right time.

“Sit, Mr. Lahey.” Deucalion gestured to the chair beside him.

Isaac’s legs gave out from under him as a ton of force pushed down on him from Ennis’ hands on his shoulders. He crumpled into the proffered chair and snapped his teeth angrily at the older man, who merely raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Four hundred meters.” Archana counted off, her voice an even, unstressed sound despite the tenseness of her muscles. Now more than ever, she looked like a coiled spring, preparing to strike.

“Why am I here?” Isaac growled in frustration as a minute ticked past with nothing but Archana’s incessant count-down to fill the silence. “What’s coming in—”

“One hundred meters.” Archana finished for him, glaring hatefully at the side of his head for speaking.

Deucalion smiled sedately, like a lion stalking its prey as he steepled his fingers in front of himself. His cane was folded and sat across his lap. “Not a what,” He corrected, sounding oddly pleased with himself. “But a whom.”

“She’s right outside the building.” Archana announced, unable to contain the anxiety in her tone. “I can sense her at the boundary. She’s attempting to break through.”

Isaac could hear something, now. A familiar cadence of inhalations and exhalations. The steady drum beat of a heart he hadn’t heard in months. Without meaning to, Isaac’s adrenaline levels surged, causing him to snap the plastic zip ties binding his wrists.

None of the alphas seemed to care or even notice.

Everyone in the room, including him, was more focused on Archana’s latest statement:

“She’s inside.”

**#-#-#-#-#**

Somehow, she knew were to go. It was like an invisible string was guiding her, pulling at her heart every time she needed to make a course correction. It was the connection with Isaac, she was sure, which throbbed painfully in her fingertips as she parked her bike outside the bank and entered the building.

Adrianna passed through an invisible barrier of some kind as she stepped through the front door. She knew that the Deucalion was expecting her, so she didn’t bother making her footsteps quiet.

Following the invisible string that made her breath quiver in anticipation and a foreign kind of yearning Adrianna had never felt before, Adrianna passed the sealed door to a vault, before entering the room at the end of the hall with the open door.

Light streamed out onto the stone floor, illuminating her feet, first, and then the rest of her body as she stepped into the doorway.

“Hello, Deucalion,” She drawled sarcastically. “You called?”

The room had two exits, one where she was standing, and the other at the complete opposite end. A large, polished wood table was situated in the middle of the room. Several vending machines lined the right wall, blocking part of a glass feature wall that separated the room, which seemed like it had once been a cafeteria, from the lobby.

Standing a few feet away, to her left, was a woman in spandex pants and a loose-fitting crop top. Her hair was dark and lank, and her feet were bare. Her nails were the colour of obsidian, jagged and pointed on her fingers and toes. She smiled predatorily at Adrianna as she noticed her analysis, flashing alpha red irises and long, sharp fangs.

Further inside, stood twin males with closely cropped brown hair and square jaws. They guarded Deucalion, who was sitting at the head of the table, protected between them. Between Deucalion and Adrianna, was another male, extremely built and heavy-set, standing watch behind the sixth, and final inhabitant of the room.

Isaac Lahey looked just the same as Adrianna had remember. His blue eyes flittered up to her face and she felt herself blushing as she was caught staring. His shoulders were hunched as he sat in the small office chair. Red chafe marks on his wrists told her had once been bound, but the plastic zip tie to blame lay broken on the floor. He had a long, deep gash along his side that seemed several days old.

“Adrianna Argent,” Deucalion replied, not at all disturbed by her calculating, analytical appraisal of his pack. “We have much to talk about.”

“So I’ve heard,” She retorted hotly. Her hands hung loosely at her sides even as she itched to grab her knives and get this over with. “What brings you to Beacon Hills?”

“Business,” He carried on their conversation with such ease that it seemed as though they could have been old friends. “I had it on good authority that Beacon Hills was the place to come if one was interested in the supernatural.”

Adrianna found herself smiling despite the urge she had to kill every one of the alphas threatening her and Isaac’s continued existence. “What do you want with me?” She caved first because it didn’t seem like Deucalion would falter. “I came all the way from New York, so this better be good.”

“I heard your grandfather, Gerard, had taken ill.” Deucalion persisted, undeterred. “I hope you can convey my sympathies.”

Adrianna’s hackles began to rise. There was something extremely disquieting about Deucalion’s casual attitude. Her demigod danger-sense was trilling off the scale. An aura of power, strong and intense, sliced across Adrianna’s senses as she tentatively reached out to get a read of her opponent.

“What are you?” She breathed as something unnatural tingled in her spine. Adrianna turned her focus onto the twins on either side of Deucalion, who now had bright red eyes, then to the burly guard behind Isaac, and finally to the slender woman with a shoe problem.

“What are _all of you_?”

Spikes of power and unfamiliar god signatures scrambled Adrianna’s concentration. Electrical frequencies and the scent of death addled her brain. Her head felt fuzzy. She reached out to steady herself on the chair nearby, which was at the opposite end to Deucalion’s own seat.

“You do not disappoint, Adrianna.” Deucalion intoned, sounding oddly satisfied by Adrianna’s line of questioning. “I gather you’ve noticed that we are not _just_ alphas.”

Through the clutter of information, Adrianna could discern one overpowering signal. It was like a needle going straight through her eyes, boring into her head. Murder. They were all murderers.

“This isn’t right,” She realized. “You shouldn’t all be here, together. You’re violating so many laws of nature.”

“Nature has no laws, Adrianna.” Deucalion lectured patiently, standing up from his seat and taking what looked like a small, aluminum stick into his hands. “There is the natural, and then there is the supernatural, and these are ruled by the higher forces mere mortals think of as deities. But truthfully, there is no order to what exists, except for the order which we assign.”

He was making sense. Adrianna hated him, instantly. He had a silver tongue and a mind for tactics that Adrianna hadn’t encountered in anyone other than her grandfather. It set her teeth on edge. Or maybe that was just because she was clenching her jaw.

“Why am I here?” She spat venomously as the man behind Isaac blinked at her with silver eyes.

“You are here because you are unique,” Deucalion indulged her, passively spreading out the hand which wasn’t holding his stick to gesture towards the other alphas. “We are all unique. And together, we are stronger.”

Adrianna read between the lines. “You want me to join your pack?” She asked, slightly affronted by the notion.

Deucalion chuckled good-naturedly at her reaction. “Yes, I do.” He affirmed. Something dark clouded his expression and the sunglasses that Adrianna hadn’t taken much interest in, perched on Deucalion’s nose, seemed to hide the stare of a perfectly sane psychopath.

“Although, you must know that you have no choice in the matter.” Deucalion offhandedly informed her. “If you refuse, I will have Ennis tear Mr. Lahey’s arms off, before severing his head.”

The description was so graphic, Adrianna felt hot bile rise in her esophagus. She glared at the man Deucalion had called Ennis. “If you so much as lift a finger against him, I’ll tear your head off.” She warned.

The man smirked, nonplussed by her threat. He seemed to be enjoying his role as personal threat-completer, if his eagerness to put his meaty hands onto Isaac’s shoulders was anything to go by.

Adrianna’s nostrils flared at the confrontation. Ennis had purposefully done what she’d told him not to do. And to think, she’d even asked nicely.

“I’m going to tell you one more time,” Adrianna spelled out calmly, emphasising every word as she refused to break eye contact with Ennis. “Touch him again and I’ll kill you.”

This time, Ennis didn’t smile, but there was an unmistakable glee in his expression as his fingers twitched against Isaac’s skin. Adrianna could feel Isaac’s stare burning into her face. She didn’t dare look away from Ennis, but she allowed herself to tentatively stretch out her awareness once more to reach Isaac.

She was ready for the onslaught of confusion when it crashed into her, and with her mind focused on making contact with Isaac, it was easier to avoid becoming overwhelmed. Adrianna felt the muscles in her back unclench as something tight uncoiled in her belly as Isaac’s familiar werewolf presence metaphysically brushed against her.

“Ennis,” Deucalion barked as he caught wind of the amplifying tension. “Don’t provoke our guest.”

The other man narrowed his eyes at Adrianna for a moment longer before he was forced to look away. Adrianna didn’t revel in the accomplishment. She felt like she was walking on eggshells. Deucalion was in charge here, and she was just another one of his pawns. One wrong move, just a little too much pressure, and everything would snap.

She had played this game long enough to know how it would end.

“Isaac,” Adrianna whispered, her stare drifting down from where she’d been daring Ennis, to meet with Isaac’s curious gaze. “Close your eyes.”

He smirked, throwing her stomach for a loop, and immediately did as she asked.

Adrianna reached into the belt around her waist and pulled out two flash grenades. Before any of the alphas could react, she tossed them into the room and shielded her eyes as they detonated, illuminating the room in bright, artificial light. After that, chaos consumed the cafeteria.

To her surprise, not all of the alphas were affected by the flash grenades. Deucalion recovered first, which was to be expected, but Ennis didn’t even blink before wrapping one arm around Isaac’s throat and squeezing.

Adrianna launched herself across the room, her knives already firmly clutched in her hands as Isaac struggled against the hulk-like man. Adrianna knew he wasn’t a werewolf, not with eyes like that. With that in mind, she was happy to see that the celestial bronze of her knives worked on him, drawing thick slices across the arm holding Isaac’s windpipe captive.

The cuts were enough of a distraction for Isaac to overpower Ennis, elbowing him in the ribs and ducking into the space where Adrianna had been only a moment before. They moved in tandem, as though with one mind, ducking and stabbing, clawing and kicking. It was a moment of unity that Adrianna had never, and doubted she would ever, experience with another person in her entire life.

Adrianna summersaulted up and over Isaac, her back connecting with his as she whirled in place to land a well-placed kick to Ennis’ temple. The other man staggered, temporarily stunned as he fell on his back. While the twins and the woman blinked painfully to clear their vision, and Ennis lay in a tangled heap on the floor, Adrianna sheathed one knife and snatched Isaac’s hand in her own, pulling him out of the room.

“Run!” She yelled, adrenaline burning in her veins as Deucalion’s outraged roar shook the walls of the bank down to the foundations.

Isaac heaved as he tried to keep up. Adrianna kept a firm grip on his hand, even as his feet slipped beneath him on the stone floor. The alphas were hot on their heels, practically on top of them in the long, stone corridor.

“The vault!” Isaac shouted, his voice strained from fatigue. “We have to help the others.”

Adrianna didn’t know what he meant by others. They rounded a corner and passed in front of a large, circular door that belonged to the bank’s vault. Isaac’s expression became pained as he hesitated at the door.

“We can’t stop;” Adrianna replied, her breathing quick. “Not for anyone.”

“Erica and Boyd are in there.” Isaac protested.

She had half a second to realize what he was saying before Isaac’s body was tackling hers to the ground. A whizzing sound reached her ears just before Isaac cried out in anguish, his full weight bearing down on top of her as they slammed into the unforgiving stone floor. She had only a moment to glance at Deucalion in the corner of her eye and see him standing at the end of the hall, one arm poised outwards in a releasing gesture to understand what had happened.

The spear was a shiny, metallic gold that betrayed its composition to Adrianna’s trained eye; _celestial bronze_. It was approximately four feet in length, although the last three feet were only visible to her since the front foot was buried in the middle of Isaac’s torso.

“Isaac,” Adrianna shrieked as something warm and wet began to seep into her shirt. He didn’t respond, his eyes shut from the shock of impact. Her hands scrambled to find purchase on Isaac’s thin shirt, which tore as she tried to use it to leverage herself out from under him. “Isaac, stay with me.”

She used one of her legs to wrap around Isaac’s hip and thigh, grabbing a firm hold on each of Isaac’s shoulders before she was able to flip him over onto his side. The alphas were approaching slowly from the end of the hallway. All of them surrounded Deucalion, like sentries to their king.

Adrianna’s hands shook as she assessed the damage. She knew pulling out the spear would only make the bleeding worse but leaving it in would mean surrendering to Deucalion and becoming a part of his pack to preserve Isaac’s continued existence. Adrianna had been subjugated beneath the likes of Deucalion before. Gerard Argent was just as much a madman as the other, always concocting schemes and nefariously interweaving events that would invariably conclude in the result he and he alone desired.

Never again.

Her hands were covered in Isaac’s blood, so it was difficult to find purchase on the smooth shaft’s surface. The spearhead was of a tapered, triangular design. It was sleek, utilitarian, and very effective. Adrianna’s finger’s ghosted over a series of intricate engravings depicting scenes of legendary battles and creatures of Greek and Roman myths.

Somehow, with all the blood, Adrianna’s hands slipped on the spear and it fell through her fingers. The spear’s head sliced her left hand open along the way, before clattering to the floor. The cut stung, but it wasn’t deep.

Adrianna kicked the spear away from herself and it skidded on the stone floors, stopping just short of Deucalion’s feet.

“I’ve followed obsessive men before,” She told him, kneeling down to check Isaac’s pulse as he groaned, beginning to regain consciousness. “And it never ends well.”

Deucalion pensively raised one eyebrow behind his sunglasses. “You’re an intelligent woman,” He said. “I’m certain you can avoid repeating prior mistakes.”

Adrianna bared her teeth in a feral smile. “—For them.” She finished.

The exhale of laughter that Deucalion emitted was nothing short of delighted. Again, Adrianna felt like she was playing right into his hands. He was unfazed by everything. She wondered if he hid his eyes behind those glasses to prevent her from seeing what he really felt. The eyes were the first to betray a person’s intentions, Adrianna knew.

“You certainly don’t disappoint, mon petite Argent.” Deucalion echoed his previous words.

The use of her last name as a diminutive was insulting to Adrianna, but also set her on her guard. There was something about the ease with which Deucalion had spoken between English and French that told her there was more to him than he was revealing.

Deucalion threaded his hands together in front of himself passively. The twins on either side of him continued to stand tense, and ready for a fight. The only woman among them stood further back beside the burly man called Ennis, whose frown and distrusting eyes betrayed his lack of enthusiasm regarding Adrianna. Or maybe it was because she’d knocked him out.

“I’ll prove to you how different I am from the leaders you’ve followed before now,” Deucalion proposed calmly. “I understand you wish to exercise what you believe is your innate right to choose where your gifts are put to use. In the spirit of respecting this misguided notion, I will allow you—what is it people call them these days—a head start?” He seemed to be asking his pack.

Obviously, the question was rhetorical. His phrasing reminded Adrianna of something she’d once heard Gerard speak about. Werewolves were never as old as they looked. And Deucalion most certainly didn’t seem to have a measly thirty-five to forty years of experience under his belt. Not by a long shot.

“Why would you do that?” Adrianna frowned in confusion. Isaac was looking up at her from the floor. He didn’t look strong enough to stand up, yet. Deucalion’s promise of a head start wouldn’t do much good if she had to drag Isaac behind her.

“Call it a gesture of good will.” Deucalion replied sagely.

“Thirty seconds, Deuc,” The woman spoke angrily behind Deucalion. “That’s all I’m giving her.” She bared her teeth and snarled. Adrianna could swear her hair flew back from the force, even though the alphas were several meters away.

“Good enough for me.” Adrianna challenged.

She hadn’t wanted to use her powers for fear of increasing Deucalion’s already rabid interest in her, but she had no other choice if she wanted to get Isaac out of the bank alive. Adrianna placed her hand over the hole in Isaac’s chest, concentrating on the tight coil of power in her gut and coaxing it across her fingers. Black veins stood out on her hands and she gasped as Isaac’s pain crawled up her arm and mixed into her like oil pouring into water.

Isaac’s eyes opened wider, his pupils constricting as the blood flow ceased from his rapidly closing wound. It was only a moment later that Adrianna withdrew her hand and helped Isaac to his feet. When she saw Deucalion’s greedy expression, she nearly regretted her actions, but Isaac was tugging her away before she could dwell too much on the thought.

Rushing through the many winding, intersecting corridors in the bank, Adrianna followed Isaac as he lead them both towards the exit. “You know where you’re going, right?” She had to wonder.

Isaac’s grip on her hand tightened, pressing into the cut Deucalion’s spear had made. Adrianna didn’t complain as a rush of energy similar to adrenaline blossomed in the bottom of her stomach. It felt like butterflies had been released inside her, flapping their wings against her ribcage and tickling in her blood, threatening to lift her feet off the ground. It felt good.

“I can hear your bike,” He revealed as they passed a familiar set of double doors, pounding across the floor which Adrianna only peripherally noticed to be stamped with an intricately carved symbol. “You kept it running. Smart.”

Adrianna grinned. “I’m a hunter, remember?” She found herself bantering. “I was taught to plan ahead.”

They crashed through the barrier between the bank and the outside world, an energetic film clinging to their skin for a moment as they stumbled from smooth stone onto the battered concrete of the curb.

Adrianna temporarily released Isaac’s hand as she slung one leg over the seat of her bike. “Get on,” She called back to him, even as she felt his warm body press against her back, slightly sticky from the blood dampening what remained of his tattered shirt. “And hold on.”

Isaac’s arms securely wrapped around her middle. She pretended not to notice the way her heart stuttered in her chest at their proximity. It had been many months since Isaac had touched her like that, and before him, there hadn’t been anyone else that set her pulse racing unnaturally.

She punched the throttle violently, jarring them both with the suddenness as the blacktop peeled beneath her black metal death machine. Neither of them wore helmets, and the wind tore at Adrianna’s face, making her squint as buildings zoomed by. In her head, Deucalion’s thirty seconds ticked by.

Five, four, three, two, one.

_Time’s up_ , Adrianna thought as she desperately tried to increase the distance between herself and the alphas. She had a suspicion that no amount of time or space would be sufficient to come between her and Deucalion.

But she had to try.

It was her fatal flaw, after all.

Adrianna never knew when to quit.

**#-#-#-#-#**

Isaac tried to suppress his smile. He had heard the racing of Adrianna’s heart as he sidled up behind her on her black, triumph motorcycle. He hadn’t forgotten his resolution three months before, to stop allowing himself to be used by the Argent huntress, but Isaac readily admitted that he hadn’t anticipated how tempting it would be to pretend as though he had.

Seeing Adrianna after having the entire summer to come to grips with Jackson’s death, had not been as awkward as Isaac once thought it would be. Of course, that was probably because she was saving his life. _Again_.

“Are they following?” Adrianna shouted into the wind to be heard. Her long, wavy brown hair (which had darkened over the summer) swept into his face and he had to shake his head and dodge to prevent himself from inhaling a mouthful.

Isaac tuned his hearing, even as he was unable to see anyone behind them along the deserted road and caught the sound of heavy footsteps barrelling in their direction. “Yeah,” He replied tightly. “They’re following.”

“How many and how far?” Adrianna spoke as she flexed her hand on the throttle, blood dripping slowly between her fingers from a cut Isaac hadn’t seen before.

“I don’t know,” He responded helplessly, suddenly irritated at Derek for not teaching him how to do anything useful with his werewolf abilities. “All of them, I think. They’re getting closer.”

Adrianna didn’t comment on his less than helpful response. She just nodded her head succinctly and leaned further forward on the bike. “Hold on.” She repeated as her thighs squeezed around the bike’s chassis.

Isaac copied her actions. “You said that already.” He couldn’t stop from pointing out.

One second was all Adrianna could spare to glance at him, but the heat in her green eyes was more than enough to make Isaac’s own heart unsteady and his hands clammy. “I meant hold on _tighter_.”

They rounded a corner at break-neck speeds and Isaac was grateful that she’d repeated herself. If he hadn’t been holding on with a vice-grip, nearly snapping Adrianna’s ribs and possibly moulding his legs straight into hers, he was sure they both would have been thrown off by the jarring forces of momentum.

Adrianna’s tires skidded, smoking and shrieking as she pushed the bike beyond it’s natural limits. Out of the corner of his eye, Isaac caught the shape of one of the twins sprinting down the street they’d just turned off, his brother not far behind.

“They’re gaining on us.” He told her, even though the set of Adrianna’s jaw told him she already knew. “Go faster.”

“I’m trying.” Adrianna ground out as the bike released another pained, guttural scream. Isaac would have had a deadly case of whiplash if he wasn’t a werewolf. Instead, his neck burned, and the bones crunched, but he was otherwise undamaged.

The twins put on another burst of speed as Adrianna took the bike down a straightaway. He couldn’t tell if they were alone, or if the other alphas weren’t as fast. Grimy, brick buildings with sooty glass windows and spray-painted graffiti lined either side of the road. Isaac wouldn’t have been caught dead in a neighbourhood like this before the bite. Now, the homeless people scuttling out of their holes, watching them pass by with vacant stares, were the least of Isaac’s worries.

Now he had a pack of alphas chasing after him, all of them vying for a big, bloody piece.

“Which way to Derek’s place?” Adrianna suddenly demanded as a fork appeared in the road ahead.

Isaac’s mind was blank. He didn’t recognize where they were and even if he did, he didn’t actually know where Derek was living. They’d been meeting at the abandoned warehouse with the train car for so long, Isaac had begun to consider that as their base.

“Not Derek,” He made a split-second decision based on who he could trust more. “Take us to Scott.”

His hands splaying across Adrianna’s abdomen to keep himself steady as the bike wobbled. The twins were clawing at the rear wheel, drawing sparks as the metal guard protected the rubber for a few moments longer.

“I’ve only been to Scott’s house once, maybe twice,” Adrianna told him, jerking the bike to the side as she tried to avoid another swipe to the rear tire. “I don’t know how to get there.”

Neither did Isaac. But he had a fairly good idea how he could contact Scott without pulling up at his house. “Take us to the hospital,” He revealed. “Scott’s mom works there.”

“That’s a bad idea,” Adrianna only had time to begin explaining before the rear wheel was finally torn to bits by a lucky swipe.

Isaac only had time to change his grip so that his arms were wrapped on the outside of Adrianna’s shoulders, protecting her from the fall, before they careened into the building standing in the middle of the fork in the road.

They were both still sitting on the bike as they scraped across the road. Thankfully, the looming building had a large window directly in their path, so they didn’t collide with solid brick. Unfortunately, they crashed through the glass with so much force that the bike was thrown free and the entire building shuddered in distress.

“That hurt.” Isaac commented bleakly as he noticed that his arms and back were covered in glass shards embedded into his skin. He tried to move, but the wedged slices just dug deeper, initiating a wave of sharp pain. “Are you hurt?” He breathlessly asked Adrianna, who had somehow been turned to face him during the crash.

She was staring behind him, where they’d fallen through the window. Her eyes were wide and panicked. “How far back are the others?” She questioned, ignoring his previous words which either meant she was unharmed, or too stubborn to admit she was injured.

Either way, Isaac knew they had bigger problems when he focused his attention on listening to the sounds of the street outside. “We lost them at the last turn.” He discerned. “They’re a few hundred meters back. We’ve got maybe two minutes.”

The twins’ footsteps sounded like one person walking but Isaac knew it was them by their scent. They approached from the same position Adrianna was staring. She looked like she was preparing for a fight.

“Adrianna, don’t do anything stupid.” He warned as she lifted his arm away from where he was holding her to his chest. “Get out while you still can.”

“Me, stupid?” She raised her brows in mock offense as the twins growled threateningly, still a good enough distance away that she had a chance of outrunning them. “You’re the one that’s stupid if you think I came all this way just to leave you behind.”

He tried to pick himself up as Adrianna stepped over him, but the pain of his unhealed injuries nearly made him black out. Isaac was forced to lie there, breathing heavily as he tried to recover his strength, and watch as Adrianna tried to take on the twins on her own.

He heard more than saw the strange, slightly morbid binding squelch that occurred as both brothers knit themselves together into one, giant wolf. It was this wolf that Isaac was afraid of. It was this wolf that Isaac wanted to kill.

It was an abomination with teeth.

“Sorry boys,” Adrianna lazily commented. She hadn’t drawn her knives. As far as Isaac could tell, she was defenceless against them. “I don’t have time to play.”

The twins roared as one giant beast, an ugly scar running along the length of their combined bodies. They charged at her, and all Adrianna did in response was square her shoulders and stretch out her hands.

Black smoke poured out of her fingertips, crackling with power, and collided with the alpha werewolf before it even had a chance to touch her. The twins were slammed back like they’d run head-first into a freight train. They were tossed aside, each brother ripped apart from their bond and thrown into opposite ends of the large, abandoned building Isaac and Adrianna had crashed into.

In the background, Isaac noticed that his ears had popped and were now ringing like the atmospheric pressure had suddenly dropped. His breath came out in puffs of hot air as a chill descended around him.

Adrianna turned to him and it might have just been a trick of the light, but Isaac thought her normally green eyes were charcoal black. And then Adrianna’s eyes rolled into the back of her head and she collapsed to the cold, concrete floor.

Isaac groaned as he hauled himself to his feet. Outside, the other alphas were beginning to get closer. He pushed his own pain into the background as he limped to Adrianna’s side and, as gently as he could, picked her up in his arms.

Several of the deeper glass shards were still embedded in his skin, but the smaller ones had already been pushed out by his healing abilities. He was careful not to stab Adrianna on any of the spikes as her chin settled into the crook of his neck. Her breath was cold, and she was trembling; a feverish sweat broke out across her forehead.

Isaac took off running in the direction of Beacon Hills memorial hospital, hoping Adrianna had bought them enough of a head start to make it there alive.

**#-#-#-#-#**

When she started her shift, Melissa hadn’t expected to see not one, but two familiar faces being wheeled into the ER. And yet, she supposed she should have. Things had been too calm over the summer—well, aside from dealing with the chains Stiles pulled out every full moon now that her son was a werewolf—and it was only a matter of time before chaos returned to her life.

“What happened?” She demanded as the paramedic pushed a gurney with Isaac Lahey lying prone on top. “I know this kid. He’s friends with my son.”

The paramedic gave her a narrow look, his thick facial features tightening with what could have been distrust, or boredom before huffing out a clipped answer. “Found the boy dragging the girl just a few blocks from the hospital,” He admitted. “Lucky they were so close, if you ask me.”

Melissa didn’t ask him, but she nodded along anyways. Behind Isaac, Melissa saw the girl that the paramedic was referring to. It was Adrianna Argent. Her hair was a little longer, her face was a little thinner, and her figure was beginning to resemble a woman, more than it did the lanky, athletic teenager she’d met what felt like a lifetime ago.

Her hand was bandaged thickly, and she was covered in blood.

“Melissa,” Isaac called out as he began to get away from her. The paramedic frowned when Melissa flittered over to the boy’s side and halted his attempts at making it deeper into the lobby, towards the waiting room. “You have to help Adrianna. I don’t know what happened but she’s not waking up.”

His voice was panicked. Fear made his words come out in a strangled tone. It reminded Melissa of her husband’s reaction whenever she started crying, which had been too often near the end of their marriage for even Melissa to wilfully recall.

“Alright, don’t worry.” She reassured him, snatching what was supposed to be the beginnings of his chart right out of the annoyed paramedic’s hand. “I’ll take these two. Take them to wing B, please.” She added for good measure when it looked like the austere man was going to ignore her out of spite.

He sighed before obliging her. As he wheeled past, Melissa squeezed Isaac’s hand in a comforting gesture. His face was pale, and his shirt was torn to shreds. A nagging sensation that might have been fear chewed at Melissa’s thoughts as Adrianna’s gurney was pushed into the spot where Isaac’s had just been.

A cursory glance thankfully informed Melissa that the blood covering Adrianna’s clothes wasn’t her own. Melissa reached into one of the many pockets in her scrub top and extracted a pen light. She placed her hand against the girl’s forehead and gasped in surprise at the frigid temperature of Adrianna’s skin. Melissa pulled Adrianna’s eyelids open, shining the light into her eyes as she tried to rouse her from unconsciousness, or at least determine if there was any brain damage. As far as she could tell, her unconscious state hadn’t been a result of any physical trauma.

Adrianna groaned, her fingers clenching around the thin sheets of her gurney. She blinked blearily up at Melissa. “What the hell happened?” She complained.

Melissa glanced up at the second paramedic that was directing Adrianna’s gurney. She wondered if it would be safe to say anything with the young woman’s curious stare fixed on her. “I was hoping you could tell me that.” She settled for saying.

The Argent wasn’t as groggy as Melissa had assumed because her eyes sharpened keenly and a single, barely perceptible nod bent her chin. They would talk about this later, without prying eyes or ears around to hear them.

“Isaac’s hurt badly,” Adrianna said instead of answering Melissa’s question. “Make sure he gets the help he needs.”

Melissa knew the girl wasn’t talking about doctors and surgery. Isaac was a werewolf. He needed a different kind of assistance. The kind that used to make Melissa’s head spin, but now just gave her a dull headache.

“Wing B?” The paramedic questioned, raising one probing eyebrow at Melissa as she waited for confirmation.

“Yeah,” She affirmed, shaking off her distracted thoughts and waving the paramedic along. “Put her in the same room as her friend.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, ma’am.” A crisp voice laden with authority interrupted from behind her. “The Sheriff instructed us to have the two separated.”

Melissa turned to meet the deputy head on. She had black, curly hair pulled back in a series of intricate braids, and chestnut coloured skin. Her name tag identified her as Deputy Graeme. Melissa knew her first name was Tara because she’d been working on the force for a long time. She had been close friends with Melissa’s ex-husband, but then again, so had everyone in Beacon Hill’s law enforcement.

“Tara, I wasn’t aware these kids were criminals.” Melissa tried to be casual as she placed her hands on her hips, but she’d been a mother too long to avoid pinning Tara down with an accusatory stare. “Have they been charged, or connected to any police matters?”

“As a matter of fact, Mrs. McCall, the girl has.” Tara responded. “We found an abandoned motorcycle not five blocks away from their position, and we have reason to believe she might have stolen it.”

Melissa would have cursed but she didn’t want to give away her hand. Instead, she just pursed her lips. “Alright, we’ll keep them separate.” She reluctantly agreed. “But I don’t want you to treat her like a criminal until you get more information. For all you know, she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Tara seemed to realize Melissa wasn’t taking no for an answer because she nodded her approval to the paramedic, who hurriedly pushed Adrianna’s gurney in the opposite direction Isaac had been taken.

“And Deputy Graeme,” Melissa couldn’t help from adding as Tara turned to leave the hospital, her lips forming a smile that was entirely false. “It’s Ms., not Mrs. McCall.”

Deputy Tara Graeme at least had the decency to appear embarrassed as she shrugged an apology. Melissa didn’t have time to dwell on her victory. She had two injured teenagers to deal with, and no idea what in the hell had happened. She needed coffee. And dinner. And Scott.

She had none of those things.

Melissa rushed in Isaac’s direction with his nearly blank chart still grasped in her hand. When she opened the door, she found him waiting for her with several large bandages spotted with blood covering his side, chest, and left shoulder.

“Where’s Adrianna?” Were the first words out of his mouth. “Is she safe?”

“The sheriff’s department insisted she be taken to a separate room. They think she stole a motorcycle.” Melissa responded, quietly shutting the door behind her before approaching Isaac’s bedside. “She should be fine. She’s awake now. She was asking for you.”

Melissa tried and failed to suppress a smile at the dramatic sigh of relief that escaped Isaac. “You really care about her, don’t you?” She couldn’t help asking, carefully lifting up the fresh bandage on Isaac’s side as she examined his wound.

“She saved my life.” Isaac supplied. He winced as Melissa poked at the long, shredded gash in his skin. She could see it starting to heal before her very eyes.

“You’re healing,” Melissa breathed, so distracted by the medical miracle happening in front of her eyes that she lost track of their previous conversation. “This injury won’t even be visible by the time you get scheduled for surgery, if it continues to heal at this rate.”

“I can’t go into surgery,” Isaac agreed seriously. “You have to make sure no one sees this. I don’t know what the hell happened three months ago that made people turn a blind eye to the mayhem that Jackson inflicted on this town, but I’m not going to bet my life on it happening again.”

She noticed that he was the only one of her son’s friends who didn’t hesitate when talking about Jackson Whittemore.

“Derek’s your alpha, right?” Melissa seemed to recall. “Should I talk to him? Does he have a phone number I can reach him at?”

Isaac’s eyes took on a certain kind of darkness Melissa had rarely seen as he shook his head. The motion was filled with meaning: disappointment, fear, anger. Melissa couldn’t even begin to understand the half of it.

“I don’t know if Derek’s got a phone number, but he’s not the person I want you to call about this.” Isaac informed her. “I need you to call Scott. He’s the only one I trust with this.”

Melissa swallowed thickly. Her son was someone very important to Isaac. So important, he was willing to stake his own life, and the well being of his friend Adrianna, on Scott being able and willing to help. The worst part was that Melissa already knew Isaac was right to do so.

Her son had changed so much over the course of the summer. He had made and completed a plan to improve his grades by taking summer classes, tutoring session, and dedicating himself to extra studying time. The pile of novels in his room alone was proof that Scott McCall was expanding his horizons. Only a year ago, Melissa would have bet a substantial amount on her son never having read anything longer than a comic book.

“What do I tell him?” Melissa wondered as she replaced the bandage over Isaac’s side, carefully adhering the medical tape to his skin.

Isaac’s rumpled hair and ghostly palour made him seem years younger than he was, but there was an unmistakeable wisdom in his eyes as he spoke his next words. So much so, that Melissa felt like she was trading places with Isaac; like he was the calm, collected adult, and she was the inexperienced, uncertain child.

“Tell him there’s an alpha pack in town, and Adrianna and I need his help.”

**#-#-#-#-#**

“He told me to tell you there’s an alpha pack in town,” Were the first coherent sentences out of Melissa McCall’s mouth, ringing across the speaker with a sense of finality that had Scott clenching his fists to stop his hands from shaking. “And that he and Adrianna need your help.”

“Adrianna’s back in Beacon Hills?” He commented in surprise.

Scott hadn’t been expecting the huntress to return after what had happened with the Kanima, although he realized that she probably had no choice in the matter, given that most of her family was dead, except for Chris and Allison. As far as Scott knew, the latter two had also just returned to Beacon Hills from spending the summer in France.

“Yeah, and the sheriff’s department is sticking their nose in this, making it impossible to get a word in without crossing that damn guard at her door.” Melissa cursed distractedly. Scott frowned. His mother hardly ever swore.

“Why are they guarding her door?” He pressed the issue, running a hand through his hair as Stiles fidgeted nervously in the driver’s seat. “And tell me it’s not because she killed someone.”

“No,” Melissa quickly told him, seemingly just as disturbed by the idea as Stiles was; his knuckles turning white on the jeep’s steering wheel. “But she might have stolen a motorcycle. And caused some property damage.”

“And you said Isaac was healing?” Scott changed directions now that he knew what he would be walking into. “I can come pick him up, but you know that’s against hospital policy. I’m not a relative.”

“Let me take care of that.” His mother simply stated. Her voice was level again and she had that tone she used whenever she was putting her foot down.

Scott felt himself smiling a little as he nodded. “Okay, I’ll be there in—” He turned to Stiles, eyebrows raised for an approximate time of arrival. “Ten, no five minutes.” He finished as Stiles waved away his spare hand and emphatically held up five fingers.

“Alright,” Melissa agreed. “And tell Stiles that just because one of you has the supernatural ability to heal, and the other is the sheriff’s son, doesn’t mean he should break every traffic law known to man.”

Scott knew she had a point, but he also knew that they had limited time before whatever, or whoever Adrianna and Isaac had been running from, caught up to them again.

“Will do.” He promised before hanging up the phone.

His knuckles cracked as he tensed in his seat. Scott ignored the uncomfortable jolt in his stomach as Stiles pulled out of the parking lot they’d stopped at halfway to Derek’s loft. He floored the accelerator, sending Scott backwards into his seat.

“She told me to drive carefully, didn’t she?” Stiles offhandedly remarked as he swerved to the side to avoid being hit by oncoming traffic in the red light he had just totally ignored.

“Yeah,” Scott agreed. “Something like that.”

Stiles laughed, a dangerous gleam in his eyes as his jeep rattled down the highway at death defying speeds. “She should really know better by now.” He muttered.

A handful of tense, queasy minutes passed by in which Scott had to dig his claws into his thighs to avoid reaching out and taking the wheel every time Stiles’ very human reflexes reacted half a second slower than Scott’s enhanced ones. It was a miracle they made it to the hospital in one piece, but Scott didn’t have much time to dwell on that fact.

“Call Derek,” He ordered, climbing out of the jeep and tossing his cell phone at Stiles because he was sure the other boy didn’t have Derek’s phone number in his contact’s list. Either that, or he’d willingly deleted it. “Bring him up to speed on the situation. Tell him to expect us at his loft.”

“You got it.” Stiles replied, picking Scott’s phone up from the seat and scrolling through the contents. Scott turned to leave as Stiles mumbled under his breath. The words were barely audible, but Scott managed to hear the gist of it.

Stiles was worried about the threat Isaac had told Melissa about. The alpha pack. Whatever _that_ meant, Scott knew it couldn’t be good. Especially not since it seemed to coincide with Adrianna’s return to Beacon Hills.

“Okay,” He breathed to himself, entering the hospital through the drive-in drop-off lane where he’d once been stabbed by Adrianna herself. “Wing B. How do I get to wing B?”

He attuned his hearing and sense of smell the way he’d learned over the summer. Stiles had made fun of him for making him hide various clothes all over the Beacon Hills preserve, but now that exercise in patience was paying off.

Scott caught Isaac’s scent a second later, mixed with pain, concern, and blood. He also identified Adrianna’s distinct scent; something like gunpowder and death. He couldn’t keep himself from shuddering at the thought.

Violence and death had an uncanny tendency to follow Adrianna. First with her mother, and then with Gerard and Jackson. He was almost disappointed that she’d decided to come back. Almost. If his gut feeling about this alpha pack was right, he’d be needing her particular skills-set sooner than he’d like.

Jogging down the tile halls of the emergency room, Scott avoided determined nurses, doctors, and staff as he made a beeline for the elevator. The door creaked as it stuttered to close. He was still several meters away.

“Hold the door!” Scott raised his voice. There were several people inside the elevator, but none of them would make eye-contact with him. He was almost certain that the doors would seal shut and he’d be forced to climb all three flights of stairs to reach Isaac, before something suddenly halted the metal maw’s progress.

Scott entered the elevator, frowning as he noticed the long, aluminum cane which had wedged between the doors and provided him his entry. His gaze followed the cane up to a hand, then to an arm, and finally to the face of a blind man.

“Thanks.” He hesitantly offered. The doors swooshing shut behind him startled him, nearly making him jump as the man’s thin lips spread in a polite smile.

“It was nothing,” The man responded, his voice ringing with a British accent. “I was just helping a friend in need.”

The way he said those words, combined with the strange hue of the rayban sunglasses he wore to cover his blind eyes, made Scott feel uneasy. While his words were harmless, Scott couldn’t shake the impression away that the man had meant more by his statement than just a friendly comment.

“Visiting someone?” The other man questioned out of nowhere, like he could read Scott’s uncertainty and was trying to placate him.

“Uh,” Scott struggled to find an excuse. “Yeah. A friend of mine.”

He felt a fluctuation in the air between them. Just like that day in the locker room when he’d known that Isaac Lahey was a werewolf, Scott noticed the unmistakable feeling of another werewolf’s presence nearby. Very nearby. So nearby, in fact, that he was probably in the same elevator with Scott.

No one else seemed to be discomfited with the conversation that the older man was having with Scott. Annoying, long-past popular elevator music crackled in the background as Scott breathed deeply and tried to focus his sensation into something more concrete.

“This friend of yours must be very important to you,” The man pointed out conversationally. “Almost like a brother, I imagine. You’re missing school to come see him, aren’t you?”

“School doesn’t start for another couple of days.” He replied, staring at the man intently.

He was in his mid to late thirties, around six feet tall, and dressed in formal attire. He looked out of place in a hospital. No, Scott realized. He looked out of place in this century; like a character from some ancient black and white movie that had been adapted from an even older book, which had probably been based on a philosopher’s works from the time when legends depicted recent history.

His features were square and chiseled, like a marble statue, and he even had the haughty tilt of his chin to match that description. His lips tilted ever so slightly like he knew Scott was appraising him and didn’t mind. If Scott didn’t know better, he’d say that the man looked like a wealthy actor in an expensive suit who’d been typecast into roles like Julius Caesar, Nero, Commodus, and Macbeth all his life. He exuded power and poise, with a hint of megalomania hidden beneath the surface.

“Who are you?” Scott wondered. He knew now that this man was a werewolf, and not from around here. He hadn’t gotten Derek’s seal of approval for passing through his territory. He didn’t smell like the area, either.

The man grinned just as the elevator door dinged at his floor, sliding open. Several people pushed past Scott to get out of the tight space, but Scott refused to move. He wanted to hear this man’s answer. He had a feeling it would be important for him, later.

“I’m an investor.” The man finally settled on replying. “You had better step out, before you miss your floor. You wouldn’t want to keep your friend waiting.”

Scott knew he was right, but he couldn’t seem to force his feet to exit the elevator. He could sense it now, the strangeness he couldn’t place was masking it, but not entirely. It was there, sharp and distinct, hidden beneath an elegant disguise.

_Alpha._

“Go on Scott,” The man finally sighed, his cane tapping against the floor in time with Scott’s steady heart. “We’ll talk again soon enough.”

The encouragement wasn’t meant to be an order, but it had the same effect. Scott found himself compelled to leave the elevator, even though he had many more questions he wanted answered.

It was only when he reached the door to Isaac’s designated room that Scott realized he’d never told the man his name.

**#-#-#-#-#**

The shaking wouldn’t stop, no matter how many blankets the nurses heaped on top of Adrianna. Her arm had been punctured a thousand times just to get an IV drip installed, which Adrianna had removed the moment she’d been left alone.

She would have already been on her way to find Isaac, and then Scott, if it hadn’t been for that damn guard standing in her doorway. Tara had clearly not kept her word to Melissa. Not for the first time in her life, Adrianna was being treated like an A-level criminal.

Just as this thought crossed her mind, a familiar voice reached her ears from just outside her room. Someone was talking to Deputy Graeme’s guard dog. Adrianna strained to hear more, but all she could make out was the distinct timbre of two male voices.

A sudden snapping noise echoed across the garbled words, rippling through Adrianna, warping the mist. From her position in bed, Adrianna could see the deputy’s shoulders slumping as if asleep, before the man nodded his head and shuffled to the side, revealing the unknown presence.

“Deucalion,” Adrianna hissed suspiciously as the man in question walked into her room. Behind him, she could see Ethan and Aiden standing on either side of the doorframe, waiting for their master to return. “I thought you couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks.” She quipped, her bandaged hand stinging uncomfortably.

“An old adage that typically rings true,” Deucalion commented, sliding his two-inch nails across the railing of her hospital bed as he neared Adrianna’s sitting form. “However, as old as I am, I’ve made it a point of pride to continue to grow and improve.”

“My pack is a reflection of this desire.” He informed her tactfully, his stare directed at her racing pulse. “I’m afraid I may not have done a very good job of conveying this sentiment to you earlier.”

“You kidnapped Isaac, threatened his life, and expect me to be grateful you put in the effort?” Adrianna spat in defiance. “If what you wanted to do was show me how progressive you really are, you did a shitty job.”

Deucalion sighed. His right hand lifted up, firmly clutching his aluminum cane. “Do you know what this is?” He redirected her, dismissing her anger as easily as breathing.

“It’s a cane for blind people, so you don’t walk into things.” Adrianna unthinkingly responded, her anger manifesting into a physical thing as her chest constricted painfully and her airway tightened.

She narrowed her eyes as Deucalion tutted in disapproval, nearly seeing red. He didn’t say anything more, but Adrianna had the distinct feeling he was prodding her to try again. She huffed in frustration, releasing some of her ire before putting more energy into supplying an answer. Instantly, she felt it. A kind of quiet, buzzing energy being emitted from the cane.

“A celestial bronze spear,” Adrianna understood. “Disguised as a cane.”

This time, Deucalion’s tone was approving. Like a teacher who had managed to get through to a particularly challenging pupil. “Indeed, it is. And can you imagine what an Alpha such as me would be doing with a weapon that is so clearly meant for a demigod?”

Adrianna swallowed thickly. The spear was calling to her, whispering secrets in her ears. Sometime between Deucalion entering her room and revealing the spear’s origins, Adrianna had stopped trembling.

“It belonged to a demigod, once.” She surmised quietly. “But you killed them. So now it belongs to you.”

“Very good, you’re a quick study when you apply yourself.” Deucalion permitted himself to compliment her. It was backhanded enough that Adrianna felt her temper rising again. “Now, since you’re such an intelligent girl, you must realize that I am far more dangerous than your reckless actions have given me credit for.”

“You gave me no choice.” Adrianna whispered. Her voice was suddenly hoarse with emotion. “You threaten someone I love, and you expect no retaliation? Maybe it’s you that doesn’t realize how dangerous _I_ am.”

“Which is why I am here at all, dear Adrianna.” Deucalion responded. His tone wasn’t mocking her, but his features seemed to take unhealthy pleasure in her discomfort at the familiarity he was treating her with. “If I didn’t think you were powerful, I would have killed you at the bank. No, you are strong, that I will freely admit.”

“You are unique.” His hand reached out and caressed the side of her face. His nails grazed her skin, razor sharp. “You will be a member of my pack eventually. It is only a matter of time before you realize the futility of struggling against such a certainty.”

Adrianna held her breath as her stomach coiled tightly. Something in the air changed as Deucalion’s madness became apparent to her. Panic gripped her throat. She was caught in the crosshairs of yet another obsessive tyrant’s plot to attain absolute power.

“I want to give your gifts a chance to flourish. To help you reach your full potential.” Deucalion continued as though he didn’t feel the change in Adrianna. She kept her eyes carefully blank from his not-so empty stare. “However, if you are too afraid of what that might mean, I will gladly return you to the ashes from which you came.”

“You can try,” She struggled to breathe as her heart stuttered. “But I’m a lot harder to kill than you might think. Just ask Gerard.”

“Gerard was a fool to use you as he did. To waste such magnificent potential on a selfish quest for power.” His hand drew back, resting behind his back in an almost elegant manner. “I am no such fool. I do not desire to kill you.”

Adrianna felt her mind racing as she built and destroyed new theories regarding Deucalion’s true motives. The only thing she could be certain of in that moment, was that she could not trust anything Deucalion said or did. Every action, every word, every incident that happened from then on could be another ploy in Deucalion’s scheme.

“No,” Adrianna agreed. “You want to own me; to control me the way you control Ethan and Aiden and all the others.”

Deucalion’s fingers tightened around his cane in the first display of discomfort Adrianna had seen from him. “Things are rarely so simple, Adrianna.” He said, “You see only what you want to see, but in time, you will understand the true value of my offer. In time, you will share my vision.”

“I will grant you a fortnight to think over my proposition,” He told her, his feet shuffling across the floor as he prepared to leave. “After that, I will kill everyone that dares to stand between us, starting with your anchor, and ending with you.”

A cold sense of dread settled into Adrianna’s bones as Deucalion left her to her thoughts. It was the type of feeling that always preceded death.

**#-#-#-#-#**

Scott had thought that the sight of blood wouldn’t faze him after what he’d seen last spring. Scott had been exposed to blood and gore ever since being given the bite, with Jackson’s body after the events of last spring taking the prize as most brutally savaged of them all. Seeing the large, raw wounds which were healing at a terrifyingly slow rate all over Isaac’s midsection and along his shoulders, Scott had to fight the urge to vomit, even though the carnage was pale in comparison to the worst Scott had seen.

He concluded readily that it wasn’t the blood that bothered him when Melissa carefully replaced the bandages, covering the wounds from his sight, and the feeling didn’t go away. It tightened in his gut, making him feel helpless.

That was it. He felt helpless. Scott instantly hated it.

“Are you alright, honey?” His mom quietly asked. Concern made her brows pinch together. “You don’t look so good.”

Scott swallowed down the queasy sensation. He couldn’t shake it off, but he could at least try to ignore it. “I’m fine.” He fluently lied, straightening his shoulders as he pushed the empty wheelchair Melissa had brought in from the nurse’s station closer to Isaac’s side.

Melissa drifted away to give him enough room to lift Isaac up into a sitting position. “I thought he was awake when you called me.” Scott wondered as he adjusted his grip on the teenager to carry him across the gap between the bed and the wheelchair.

“He was,” Melissa affirmed, snatching at the chart hanging from the bottom of Isaac’s bed. “He was given some pre-surgery anesthetic. I guess I shouldn’t be so hard on Stiles because his driving got you here just in time.”

Scott settled Isaac into the wheelchair, carefully placing each of his feet into the plastic foot rests. A tingling, warm sensation ran up the length of Scott’s arm, across his chest, prickling everywhere Isaac’s body had touched Scott’s. He’d never experienced anything like it before, but it seemed to be directly linked to the horror Scott felt at seeing Isaac injured.

Somehow, Scott felt responsible for Isaac. Like it was his fault Isaac was hurt. He should have been there. He should have protected him. He was his friend, after all. But friend didn’t seem to cover it.

A deep, undiscovered part of him wasn’t happy with the indistinct label. He was reminded of what the man in the elevator had said.

_Brothers._

That was the word he was searching for. His eyes stung the way they did on the full moon when he lost control. He turned to his mother but was caught by the reflection staring back at him from the small mirror nearly hidden away in the adjoining bathroom. His eyes were glowing, just like he’d sensed, but their colour wasn’t beta yellow. They were red. Alpha red.

“What is it?” His mother asked him, shaking him out of his reverie. He blinked and the colour was gone, replaced by a very human, brown iris.

“Nothing,” Scott dismissed uneasily. “Let’s get him it out of here before the doctors do their rounds.” He told her.

As Scott began wheeling Isaac down the hall, his mother walking a few paces ahead so as to deflect suspicion, Scott wrestled with himself. He wanted to believe the bright red of his eyes had been a trick of the light. It had happened only for a split second, and the fluorescent lights from the hospital could have been messing with his sight.

A part of him knew it couldn’t be real. He was a beta without a pack. An omega, really, although having Stiles and the temporary allegiance with the Argents hadn’t made him think of himself that way.

He couldn’t be an alpha.

_Could he?_

Melissa peered into the hallways intersecting their path, making sure the coast was clear before nodding Scott along. She flashed him a nervous smile as he entered the elevator at the opposite side of the hospital that he’d come in from.

“Be safe,” Melissa told him, her hands twitching uncomfortably before she stuffed them into the pockets of her pants. “And call me when you get home.”

“I will.” Scott promised.

Just before the doors shut Scott and Isaac inside the elevator, Scott bent forward to press the first-floor button and noticed his mother’s expression change from cautious optimism, to one of absolute uncertainty when she thought he wasn’t looking. It was clear he hadn’t been meant to see that. But he had.

He reflexively found that he wanted to be strong, but it wasn’t as easy as that. All summer he’d been training himself to see the bright side, even when he was being drowned by problems, and now he had something else to worry about—on top of still being broken up with Allison, finding a new anchor, keeping Isaac safe, finding Erica and Boyd, and dealing with the alpha pack.

Scott sighed as the elevator dinged, the doors opening swiftly to the first floor. He pushed Isaac out and treaded past the emergency room. He was so lost in his own thoughts that he almost didn’t see Adrianna standing in front of him until the wheelchair was uncomfortably close to colliding with her.

“Wow,” Scott exclaimed in surprise, his knuckles tightening around the handles of the wheelchair as Adrianna’s unnervingly intense stare burned into him. “I didn’t see you there.”

Adrianna’s eyebrow quirked in silent mockery of his blunder, but she didn’t verbally call him out. Instead, she glanced behind her surreptitiously before responding with, “That’s kind of the point. I am trying to break out of a hospital.”

It felt surreal that those were the first words exchanged between them. After what Adrianna had done to Jackson, _for_ Jackson—as Scott had eventually come to realize—he would have thought that their next encounter would be more meaningful.

“Wait,” He finally caught onto what she was saying. “You’re breaking out? Don’t you need a surgery, or something?”

Adrianna laughed. There was something different about the way she carried herself, Scott noticed. Like she was walking on eggshells, or even as though she were carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders like the titan Atlas.

“I don’t the trouble accepting medical assistance will get me.” Adrianna told him, brushing a strand of frizzy, wavy brown hair out of her face. “If you hadn’t heard, the sheriff’s department is more concerned about a stolen motorcycle than they are about two beat-up teens walking into the ER with no adults in sight.”

Scott remembered what his mother had said about Adrianna being placed under the watch of a deputy. “How’d you get out of your room, anyway?” He wondered. “I thought you were being guarded.”

“If you call that a guard.” Adrianna made a sarcastic sound that was stuck somewhere between a heavy exhale and a laugh. “He was easily distracted.”

A heavy groan sounded between and slightly below them. Isaac’s limp head and neck jostled as he blinked blearily up at Adrianna. Scott instantly saw a difference in Adrianna’s posture as she bent forward to feel Isaac’s forehead.

Scott wanted to say something to stop her, a flash of protectiveness burning in his gut before he saw the gentleness of Adrianna’s actions, and relaxed. The way her fingers imperceptibly caressed the skin of Isaac’s cheek as her spare hand cupped the side of his face, felt oddly intimate.

A knot tightened in Scott’s chest as he unwittingly thought about Allison. He’d been able to touch her like that, before things had fallen apart. Scott irrationally felt like he was intruding, and the pressure on his heart demanded that he direct his stare away from the reminder of what he’d lost.

Instead, Scott looked towards a thin wrapping of gauze that encircled the hand Adrianna had placed against Isaac’s forehead. He could smell blood and gunpowder on her, which nearly covered the faint metallic scent Scott had come to associate with her knives. He could also smell the vestiges of someone familiar on Adrianna’s clothes, but couldn’t place the scent with anyone he knew.

“You’re going to need Derek’s help healing.” Adrianna whispered as Isaac blinked heavily, still slightly sedated. “Rest now.” She crooned hypnotically.

Her bandaged hand fell away while her other hand slowly traced over the length of Isaac’s neck, stopping only to rest in the crook of his neck as Isaac shut his eyes heavily.

“Scott, you should go with him.” Adrianna directed to him, her tone instantly sharper, shaking away the tendrils of fatigue that had unwittingly slithered into Scott’s brain. “Make sure he’s safe.”

“What about you?” Scott responded. “You could come with me.” He suggested.

Adrianna looked torn. Her thumb pressed against Isaac’s pulse like she took comfort in the steady rhythm that Scott could easily hear. He was confounded by her attitude. If Scott didn’t know better, he would have said that she actually wanted to come with him.

“I can’t.” She eventually replied, gesturing with her chin in the general direction of the ER waiting room. “Someone’s got to distract the cops for you to get Isaac out.”

Sure enough, a quick glance over his shoulder allowed Scott to see Stiles’ dad in a deep conversation with one of his deputies just outside the ER waiting room. The deputy was a dark-skinned woman Scott knew to be Deputy Tara Graeme. She’d loaned him many of the books he’d needed for tutoring and extra studying over the summer, but Scott knew that wouldn’t stop her from doing her job when he tried to waltz out of the hospital without discharge papers for the unconscious minor in his care.

“Yeah,” He agreed uneasily. “How exactly do you plan on doing that?”

“Please,” Adrianna seemed to brag. “This isn’t the first time I’ve had to pull the wool over the local law enforcement’s eyes.”

Scott was deeply disturbed by the fact that conversations like this no longer bothered him. He knew he should have been appalled by her insinuation, and maybe the Scott before the bite would have been. But he wasn’t that Scott anymore. He’d come to expect the unexpected from Adrianna, and even found it in himself to appreciate her often less-than-legal experience. 

“Thanks. It’s good to have you back,” He said. Scott was surprised by how genuine the words actually were. So was Adrianna.

“You don’t mean that.” She swatted away the compliment like an unwanted fly. “No one likes having me around. Not even my own family.”

Scott could hear bitterness in her tone. He wondered if it would be wise to ask her what she meant. “I do.” He felt obligated to reassure her. “— _Mean it_.” He clarified when all he received was a confused frown.

Adrianna stared at him in confusion for a long time before she shook her head. “I’ll meet up with you after I’ve sorted this mess out and found a change of clothes.” She said with finality, sparing a second to stare critically at her torn jeans and bloodstained tank top. “Don’t tell Peter I’m back in town, yet. I want to surprise him.”

Scott’s smile reflected the mischievous, lighthearted cruelty of Adrianna’s own wry grin as she sauntered past him, moving to intercept the incoming Sherriff and his deputy. Something told Scott she’d get along with strict, by-the-book Deputy Graeme like a house of fire. Scott cringed at the metaphor.

The Hales were not going to be happy.

**#-#-#-#-#**

The doorbell rang at six o’clock on a Sunday, only three hours after Chris had officially moved back in with Allison, in the home he’d picked out with Victoria a full year before.

Allison had already left with Lydia a full twenty minutes ago. Chris knew the chances of it being her were slim to none given the amount of time she’d been gone, and the fact that she had a spare key.

His gun was out of the waistband of his jeans in one fluid, thoughtless motion as he cautiously approached the door. There were no windows in the tall, oak entrance, so the only view Chris could get of the person on the other side of the door was through the small, round peephole. Chris reminded himself to install extra security measures as soon as possible, approaching the door to get a better look at the situation.

“Uncle Chris,” A feminine voice shouted from the other side. “It’s me, Adrianna. Open up.”

The familial title felt awkward coming out of his niece’s mouth and bounced with an equally foreign sensation through Chris’ ears as he lowered his gun and unlatched the deadbolt, door chain, and hand lock to open the door.

“Hi,” He greeted Adrianna, leaning to either side as he assessed the front porch for possible hidden threats. “I didn’t know you were back in Beacon Hills.” Was all he could manage.

Adrianna wasn’t bothered by the cold greeting. She rolled her eyes in a somewhat bored fashion, like Chris wasn’t the first person to tell her that, before she entered the house.

“I would have called ahead but I don’t have your number,” She told him, dusting off her feet on the welcome mat like it was the most normal thing in the world. Chris supposed it was. “Not that I could even if I did, because you know what a pain in the ass technology can be for people like me.” Adrianna finished, her stare drifting away from Chris and onto the vaulted ceilings of the entryway.

Chris didn’t know why technology would be a problem for Adrianna, but he had enough supernatural experience to make an educated guess. “Cellphones transmit your supernatural signature on a wide band-width? I’d imagine that would be inconvenient.” He pieced together his thoughts into something of a rhetoric question.

Adrianna nodded, confirming his hypothesis. She didn’t seem to notice or care that Chris didn’t have all the details. “I didn’t think you’d move back to this place.” She commented, sounding genuinely worried. “There’s a lot of memories here. Bad ones. It’s probably wiser for you to sell it and move on.”

Chris knew she was right. He rubbed a hand through his hair, surprised by how thin it was getting. “Yeah, I was going to get to that.” He told her. “Only, school’s about to start and the last thing Allison needs right now is to move again.”

Adrianna’s lips pursed as she nodded along to his words, not refuting anything, but not quite agreeing, either. “Still,” She pressed as her drifting gaze landed on Chris, narrow, forest-green eyes reminding him achingly of his sister. “Sometimes it’s better to let sleeping ghosts lie. I’ve got enough problems on my hands in this town without having to worry about hauntings.”

Something sharp stabbed in Chris’ heart as his niece so casually conversed with him about all the things that went bump in the night. He started to wonder just how much Adrianna knew about the supernatural. Gerard, as it turned out, had kept far too many secrets from him.

“The house is secured against those kinds of threats,” He assured her, his voice coming out more callous than he’d wanted it to. “We may not hunt those types of things, but we’re certainly not ignorant of them.”

Sharp teeth and lips that looked blood red against the paleness of her face, contorted Adrianna’s features so that she looked positively menacing. It was the expression Kate used whenever he’d just made a fool of himself and she was going to tease him mercilessly about it.

“I keep forgetting about all the things you don’t know.” Adrianna whispered. “You still think this family is ruled by the code. That it brings order into the chaos.” Her arms wrapped around herself, like she was suddenly cold. “But the chaos is all there’s ever been.”

“What did you come here for?” Chris prodded. He was getting angry, despite his original intention to treat Adrianna with the respect and kindness she deserved as a member of his rapidly dwindling family. He blamed it on the Kate in her.

“I came for a change of clothes and I was hoping to have a place to stay.” She raised one imperious brow at him, challenging him. “That is, if your offer still stands?”

It was like she could see that he was at war with himself. One part was the grieving father that wanted to ferociously protect all he had left to his dying breath, including Adrianna. The other part was the betrayed son that wanted to unleash vengeance on his father for tearing his world apart. Chris was ashamed to find out that the latter aspect was winning.

Chris swallowed thickly as he ignored Adrianna’s subtle escape option. “Yes, certainly.” He told her, assessing her clothes for the first time, and feeling utterly stupid for not offering his assistance earlier. “I’m sure Allison’s got something that will fit you, and god knows this house is too big for just the two of us.”

He was a man of his word. Nothing would change that.

Adrianna smiled hesitantly and Chris was finally able to stop seeing so much of his dead sister in the young woman standing in front of him. She was not exactly like Kate, after all, and the summer had made some of the differences more obvious.

Her hair was darker and much longer than Kate had ever let hers grow, falling to the middle of her back in unruly waves. Her nose was dotted with freckles that Kate’s smooth complexion never had, and her figure was beginning to develop curves that his muscular, lanky sister would have killed for.

“I can take you to Allison’s room,” He suggested when Adrianna seemed wary about venturing into the house any further. “If you like.”

“Sure.” She agreed readily, proving how uncomfortable she was in the house. Chris was more than a little glad to see he wasn’t the only one hiding demons in the walls.

He led the way upstairs, tucking his gun back to where it had been nestles at his waist and gripping the curved railing as he ascended the steps. Adrianna kept a polite distance from him. He noticed that her knuckles were white when she released her hold on the banister and joined him walking across the upstairs landing and into Allison’s room.

“I’m not sure where she keeps everything.” He admitted sheepishly. That feeling of emptiness and loss that he got every time he was reminded of Victoria punched him in the gut. He tensed but remained steady under the strain.

Chris pointed to the dresser, and then the closet as Adrianna looked at him imploringly. “I think she keeps her pants in that drawer over there, and she’s got a lot of shirts and dresses hanging in the closet.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably as he was reminded of the spare bedroom Adrianna had lived in last year, just across the hall. “I had someone clean out the house while we were gone. I don’t know if any of your stuff is still here.”

“That’s alright,” Adrianna reassured him. “I only had the one set of clothes to begin with, and a spare shirt and some underwear.” She told him offhandedly.

Shock and then anger hit Chris at her admission. She didn’t seem bothered by her lack of possessions, but Chris was outraged. He felt his cheeks colour red as his anger at his father grew.

“You never had more than one set of clothes?” He had to repeat it, to believe it. “All this time…” Chris had trouble concentrating. “Kate never took you shopping? It was her favourite thing to do with Allison. I—I don’t understand.”

He knew he’d said the wrong thing as soon as it was out of his mouth, but there was no taking it back. Adrianna’s hands clenched around a pair of plain skinny jeans, providing the only insight into her reaction that Chris could see with her back to him.

“One set of clothes was all I ever needed. If they got damaged in a fight or on a hunt, they were replaced. It was efficient.” She spoke with military precision, just like Gerard often did.

Kate had never been able to pull off the apathy and cold detachment with which their father ruled. She was all fire and explosives, unable to contain the beating heart of her rage. Adrianna, Chris could now see, was more like tempered steel. She matched Gerard’s tone perfectly, even as her trembling hands betrayed her true feelings.

If Gerard were there, he’d say she needed to be quenched one finally time in order to crystalize into her final form. Chris hated himself a little for being able to think like his father.

“And as you well know,” Adrianna continued after a long, tense silence. “My mother had a very different relationship with Allison, than she did with me.”

Adrianna turned around to face Chris. Her eyes were dry and sharp, but the redness encircling her lower eyelids told Chris that she was close to crying. Her features were defiant under his scrutiny, but he could see cracks forming beneath the carefully sculpted surface. It was the closest thing to devasted that Chris had seen Adrianna look since she was standing over Jackson’s lifeless corpse.

“I’m sorry.” He feebly managed. “I didn’t think before I spoke. It won’t happen again.”

Normally, apologies were long and sappy, drawing out the pain they were meant to be suppressing because of thoughtlessness and insincerity. Chris had heard too many of those apologies and condolences in the last year than he ever wanted to again. He wasn’t going to degrade himself by issuing the same reflexive words to his own niece.

Adrianna seemed to be grateful for his efforts because her shoulders lost their tense posture. She rummaged around in Allison’s dresser for another moment before she retrieved a simple, ribbed, long-sleeve black top that Chris had never seen Allison wear, stretching out the ensemble on her cousin’s bed. Only then did Chris notice that both pieces of clothing were dark. He wondered if she avoided colours because she didn’t like them, or because she’d never tried them.

“Thanks,” She spoke into the quiet unwaveringly, not fazed by the fact that she’d let Chris’ apology hang unanswered for an indecent amount of time. “I was probably overreacting, anyway. But thanks.”

Chris felt a sense of relief spread through him. He didn’t want to ostracise his already reluctant niece any more than Gerard and Kate had already succeeded at doing. He wasn’t totally blind. He knew there had been a reason he hadn’t known of Adrianna’s existence for sixteen years, but he’d foolishly assumed that his sister wouldn’t have allowed Gerard to take things as far as he obviously had.

Chris had barely second to turn around before Adrianna casually pulled her dark red shirt over her head. She began changing into the clothes she’d laid out for herself with no thoughts for modesty. It was another trait that reminded him of Gerard. Chris was starting to wonder if the characteristics Adrianna had inherited from Kate were really the worst of her problems. Certainly not, if his father had somehow managed to rub off on her.

“Do you have any jackets I can use,” She spoke from behind him, the rustling of fabric and hopping of footsteps telling him that she was pulling on Allison’s jeans. “I didn’t have one in New York because the summer was so hot, but I’m going to need one if the weather keeps getting colder over here.”

Chris felt a pang of sympathy for the girl. She was making excuses for why she needed the jacket, almost like she thought he wouldn’t agree if she didn’t have a good enough reason.

“Sure,” He started raspily, stopping to clear his throat of the sudden tightness he felt there. “I think Allison has an old leather jacket she doesn’t use anymore somewhere in the basement storage.” He considered. “Allison never really like how it made her look, but I think your styles are pretty different, anyway.”

Adrianna was silent. She didn’t seem to be moving, so Chris took that as his cue to turn around. She was standing in front of him in dark grey jeans and a black shirt, a utility belt with scabbards for her two knives looped around her waist. She was cradling her left hand to her chest and inspecting her palm like it held all the world’s secrets, but they were written in a language foreign to her.

“I—I’d like that.” She stuttered. When she looked up, she had a hard time making eye contact. She seemed uncertain how to react to Chris’ generosity. “That would be really cool.” Her voice cracked and she shyly ducked her chin forward to cover her blushing cheeks from him.

Chris had seen that look before, but never on Adrianna. Allison had done the exact same thing when she was a little girl and he’d surprised her on Christmas by taking her to the local town’s fair. It was the year after they’d been driven out of Arizona, where Allison had lived the longest. He’d almost forgotten among his own loss and pain, that Allison hadn’t been the only Argent to lose her mother. Kate, with all her faults, had still been Adrianna’s mother, and a mother wasn’t someone any teenage girl should have to live without.

“I’ll go take a look.” He offered, moving to leave the room because his own eyes were starting to get misty and he had a feeling Adrianna wouldn’t laugh at his lack of composure before crying with him (or sometimes the other way around) like Allison did. “Just stay here for a moment. I’ll be back.”

He rushed out of the room, hoping to escape the airless sensation lodged in his chest from the sudden vulnerability he’d seen in his niece. She was just a kid. They were all kids.

Chris numbly made his way into the basement, passing by the half-opened door which led into the unfinished portion and towards the closet at the back of the room where Chris and Allison kept the things they didn’t need, or couldn’t bare to get rid of. Hidden under a black garbage bag filled with Allison’s old stuffed animals was a black leather jacket with silver studded accents.

Reaching in to grab the jacket, Chris’ hand brushed over the rough texture of a large, ornate chest. His fingers absently traced the letters _V. A_., which were stamped on the top. All of Victoria’s belongings were locked away in there. Chris gasped as a sudden ache spread through his bones. He shut his eyes tightly and looked away from the trunk and all it’s hidden memories.

“What is this?” Adrianna’s voice asked from somewhere behind him.

Christ felt a mild sense of irritation with the girl for not heeding his orders to stay in Allison’s room. He didn’t want her roaming the basement before he had a chance to remove certain additions his father had made.

“I thought I told you to stay upstairs.” Chris replied, standing up from his crouched position and turning to face Adrianna. The jacket hung from his hand loosely, all but forgotten.

Just as he had feared, Adrianna was standing in the landing behind him, staring into the ajar entrance to the unfinished section of the basement. All manner of horrors lay in there, but the memories were likely to be the hardest to confront. Chris knew he’d spent more time than he should have scrubbing at the concrete floors, trying to wipe away the blood.

But like most Argent stains, the hunter’s blood his father had shot and killed couldn’t be removed.

“What is this?” Adrianna stubbornly insisted, her tone darkening. “I found this on Allison’s desk after you left, and I thought it had to be a mistake.” She held out her right hand for him to see. Silver glinted in the yellow light as Chris finally understood.

“But here it is, right in front of me,” She was losing her composure. Her eyes were hard, like emeralds, and her jaw was locked so tight she could have snapped a tooth from the pressure. “So, explain yourself!” She shouted.

In her hand was the silver arrowhead Allison had fashioned only an hour before. The Fleur-de-lis symbol was engraved along the midline of the triangular surface, where the shaft of an arrow would be inserted.

Chris felt like a fool.

He should have realized his father’s memory wasn’t the only open wound the Argents were faced with healing.

“That’s a silver arrowhead.” He tried to start calmly, licking his lips as Adrianna bristled at his attempts to soothe her ire. “Allison’s going to be eighteen next month,” Chris tried a different approach.

“So, you think because she’s older than me that she has more right to this than I do?” Adrianna snarled, unable to hear him out. “Do you really think she’s more capable than I am?” She rhetorically questioned. “I’ve been training for this my entire life. Allison is a child. When Gerard chose her to lead, he did so because he knew she would be easily manipulated and completely blinded by her hate for Derek.”

“She is nothing, compared to me.” Adrianna’s words came out sounding guttural and animalistic. She had a feral glint in her eyes. “I have slayed countless monsters she knows nothing about. I have forgotten more ways to kill you in this instant, than she will ever learn.”

“I have sacrificed everything for this.” The arrowhead fell to the carpeted floor with a dull thud. “This is all that I am. _You cannot take this from me._ ”

Her last words came out pleading. Adrianna’s arms hung limply at her sides. She was staring at him with anger and bitterness, but beneath that was a heavy sorrow that nearly suffocated Chris to even look at.

“It’s a part of the code.” He stubbornly refused to back down. If she was going to make him choose between his daughter or her, then he had to side with Allison. She was all he had left of Victoria, after all. She was his second chance to make things better.

“It’s Allison’s birthright to graduate as a hunter once she’s mastered everything that I can teach her.” Chris stated coldly. “I took the liberty of completing her training in France. She’s ready. I know she is.”

Adrianna looked like he’d slapped her. She stumbled backward, dazed. “You really believe that?” She breathed. “You actually think she will lead us, and I will follow?”

“She doesn’t have to lead.” He tried to compromise. There was something about the way Adrianna was backing away from him that told him he had only seconds to do something before he lost her. “It’s just a graduation. Allison needs this. She needs to have this hope. After what Gerard did, I was terrified of losing her again.”

“Your code says that the Argents follow a woman.” Adrianna’s features closed off from him. She spoke distantly, as if none of this concerned her. “When Allison graduates, it will be her right to take the position our mother’s deaths left vacant.”

Chris shook his head as he began to panic. “It doesn’t have to be that way. The code states that any woman of Argent blood who is a graduated hunter can lead. You can help each other.” He attempted to persuade. “You can both take that position. She needs you just as much as you need her.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Adrianna’s voice was hollow as she spoke her next words. “Gerard never permitted me to graduate as a hunter.”

Chris felt like his heart stopped beating. He should have known, should have guessed at his father’s cruelty, but he’d been too concerned with mending his relationship with Allison to realize that the consequence was shutting Adrianna out. 

“So, you see,” Adrianna explained to him. “There can only be one leader.”

The look on her face could only be described as lost.

She turned away from him, treading over the carpet without another word as she made it to the stairs and began ascending. Chris knew she wasn’t coming back.

“What about the jacket?” He called out in desperation. She was nearly to the top of the steps. “You still need it, don’t you?”

Adrianna didn’t face him as she stood on the level above him. “Keep it.” She tonelessly replied before walking away.

Chris wanted to run after her, but his legs felt like they weighed a thousand tons, and his feet might have been swallowed by quicksand. “Wait,” He whispered to himself. “Adrianna, come back.”

He heard the front door open and shut harshly as Adrianna Argent walked away from what remained of her family.

Chris felt numb all over. He didn’t realize he was on his knees until his hands swept across the carpet and picked up the silver arrowhead Adrianna had dropped.

“Not again,” He muttered under his breath, his thumb sliding over the unsharpened silver edge until a thin, red line of blood broke his skin. “I can’t lose anyone else.”

But deep down, Chris knew he hadn’t lost Adrianna.

After all, he couldn’t lose something he’d never had.

**#-#-#-#-#**

He should have been there.

That was the one thought that Derek couldn’t shake as Scott lowered Isaac onto the sofa. He was Isaac’s alpha. He was responsible for Isaac’s safety. _He_ should have been the one that Isaac called for help when he needed it.

Instead, he’d called Scott.

“So, uh, was anyone going to tell us about the alpha pack?” Stiles rambled next to the table Peter had insisted he bring into the loft, because; _‘we’re not animals, Derek, not all of us enjoy eating off the floor.’_ “Because I’m fairly certain that Scott and I have a right to know about threats that have a potential to end our lives.” The spastic boy dramatically ended, his voice increasing in volume and severity.

“We would have told you,” Peter unhelpfully supplied. “Only you and Scott decided you were too morally upstanding to hang around and help us find Erica and Boyd. The minutia of the situation didn’t seem to be a relative priority.”

Scott retracted his hand from where it was resting against Isaac’s forehead. “We didn’t help because you didn’t ask.” Scott informed Peter with surprising calm. Derek felt a flash of jealousy as he noticed the way Scott lingered protectively around Isaac, leaning against the back of the sofa to keep an eye on the unconscious beta.

“We never asked because we didn’t need you help.” Derek finally spoke, steepling his fingers as he bent forward in the chair he’d been sitting in since the moment he’d gotten Stiles’ call. “And I didn’t tell you about the alpha pack because it didn’t concern you.” He finished.

Stiles snorted derisively across from him. “How’d that work out for you?” He sarcastically jibed.

“I’m not going to pretend like it doesn’t matter that you didn’t tell us about the alphas.” Scott interrupted his friend, sending him a pointed stare which promptly silenced the stream of insults and retorts Derek knew the teen had formulated in his mind over the past five seconds.

“It does matter.” Scott emphasised. “But I’m going to see past it so we can work on the real problem. Isaac’s hurt and he’s not healing fast enough. We need to deal with that and after he’s awake and in better shape, we can get more answers about what happened with the alphas.”

Derek didn’t like the way Scott said _we_. A deep, animalistic intuition told him that Scott’s version of _we_ was very different to Derek’s version. He let the feeling pass and focused on Scott’s proposition, which was surprisingly, a very reasonable litany.

“From what I can tell,” Peter surmised from his spot on the opposite end of the couch to Scott. “The wounds from the alphas are only healing superficially. He’s likely still got a good deal of internal damage beneath the skin layer.”

Peter met Derek’s stare head on, an almost imperceptible twitch marring his expression for a split second. Derek knew what it meant and couldn’t stop himself from releasing a heavy, exhausted sigh.

“He’s going to need to see Deaton, isn’t he?” Derek asked, even though he already knew the answer.

“Well, you’re the alpha,” Peter deliberately reminded him, that undertone of jabbing, nearly ironic resentment still present. “But to me, yeah, it looks like there’s too much damage for you to handle on your own.”

“Handle?” Stiles annoyingly exclaimed, his face the perfect picture of bewilderment. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“You know how there are positions in a pack?” Derek humoured Stiles as he bought himself time to think.

“Alpha, beta, omega.” Scott supplied, clearly interested. “And their strengths vary according to their rank, right?”

“Exactly,” Derek affirmed. “And part of being an Alpha is being able to protect your pack; whether than means leading, comforting, teaching, or healing them.”

The words felt acrid and papery across his dry tongue. He avoided Scott’s curious stare and his friend’s steely-eyed, analytical eyes as he glared at the concrete floor. He was sure his eyes were burning red. Some Alpha he’d been.

“So, if Alphas can do all that,” Stiles postulated, catching onto the crux of the problem. “Why can’t you just heal Isaac and make him good as new?”

“The wounds are too deep,” Peter answered for him. “And there are too many. Even if Derek took Isaac’s pain, aiding in the healing process, it would expend too much energy from them both to be worthwhile.”

“Which is why he needs to see Deaton.” Derek repeated. He’d made up his mind on the matter. He needed Isaac in fighting shape as soon as possible. “We’ll take him first thing tomorrow morning, after he’s had a chance to rest.”

“Tomorrow?” Scott echoed uncertainly, his brow quirking in disapproval. “Why not today? You said yourself he can’t heal from those wounds on his own.”

Derek didn’t have the energy to explain his hesitance to Scott. He couldn’t broach into the reason why he was waiting, without revealing more about the alpha pack. Derek needed to be sure Deucalion wasn’t waiting for him at the veterinary clinic turned supernatural hospital before he asked for Deaton’s help.

Instead, he merely grunted out, “Because I said so.”

Derek put his alpha power behind the words, certain that Scott wouldn’t feel very enthusiastic about following the plan, particularly because it was Derek’s plan. Instead of cowering the way any beta would have under Derek’s fuming gaze, Scott squared his uneven jaw, meeting Derek’s stare without a trace of fear at the power-imbalance between them.

“Just make sure Isaac’s alright,” Scott stipulated as he reluctantly approved. Like Derek needed his permission to do anything. “I’ll talk to Deaton about arranging a time when he doesn’t have customers.”

It suddenly occurred to Derek that he’d allowed himself to heed Scott’s plans precisely because he wanted permission. Because that meant it wouldn’t be his fault when things went south. And a part of him couldn’t bear to have any more failures attributed to his name.

“What’s that?” Derek asked as Stiles and Scott prepared to leave. “On your arm, there.” He pointed to Scott’s left bicep, his keen, wolf eyes picking up two distinct bands of tissue damage.

Scott turned partially so that he no longer faced the door, his other hand reaching up to finger the spot where the bands had once been. “I got a tattoo,” The seventeen-year-old boy ducked his head sheepishly. “But it faded. It healed.”

Derek wasn’t a complete fool. He knew that having Scott as an ally would be advantageous against the alpha pack. He saw an opportunity to mend the burnt, but not quite broken bridges between them as he stepped out of his chair, gesturing for Scott to take his place.

“Let me see it,” Derek offered. “I know how to make it permanent, if that’s what you want.”

Scott smiled at him, an ounce of suspicion bouncing between Stiles and him as the other boy raised an inquisitive brow at the sudden generosity. Derek rolled his eyes while inwardly, he cursed Stilinski for being so perceptive.

“Come on,” He urged. “Let me repay you for looking out for Isaac.”

_And for abandoning you last spring when you needed my help,_ He silently added.

Scott brushed past him and sat down in the chair offered to him. His eyes were strangely sharp as he explained the shape of his tattoo to Derek, almost like he could pick up on Derek’s efforts to make amends.

“What does it mean to you?” Derek found himself wondering, even though he had no right to know.

Scott withdrew from him, his posture tensing for a moment as he pondered how to respond. Derek knew he didn’t deserve the whole truth, but he hoped things weren’t so bad between him and Scott that he’d get a complete lie.

“It’s my new anchor.” Scott eventually settled on sharing. “After the break-up with Allison and her trip to France.”

Derek hadn’t known the two were no longer seeing each other, but he wasn’t overly surprised. Argent women were known for being fickle in love. He tried not to judge Allison so harshly but found that it was difficult. He’d deal with that a different day.

For now, he nodded at Peter to get the blowtorch from under the kitchen sink. “This is going to hurt,” He warned Scott. “ _A lot_.”

Scott nodded wordlessly, bracing himself as Peter handed the blowtorch to Derek’s outstretched hands.

“Hold him steady,” He told Peter, who was already positioned behind Scott, gripping the boy’s shoulders with clawed fingers, and pinning him to the chair. “Just a warning, Stiles, he’s probably going to scream.” Derek called over his shoulder to the jittery wreck that was Scott’s best friend.

“Oh god,” Stilinski muttered, his heart nearly beating as fast as Scott’s was. “And I thought the needle was bad.”

Derek lit the flame on the torch, calibrating it from red hot, to a searing blue light. He gave Scott one more opportunity to back out, holding the fire inches away from his skin, and only proceeded to blister, blacken, and then char the skin when he received Scott’s resolute nod.

Scott did scream, even though he tried to fight it and the sound echoed in Derek’s ears long after the two had left the loft.

For a single heartbeat when the pain had been at its worst, Derek could have sworn the scream wasn’t just a scream, but a deep, powerful roar.

It was probably nothing.

Either way, he had bigger things to worry about.


End file.
